


speak

by heavyliesthecrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bartender/Writer!Jughead, F/M, Fluff and Life Angst, Loss of Parent(s), Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Therapist!Betty, a prolific letter-writing dog, many greeting cards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavyliesthecrown/pseuds/heavyliesthecrown
Summary: People can reveal themselves in all sorts of ways without intending to. They can say everything without opening their mouths. Talking isn’t the only way in which to speak.A floor and a ceiling, an Old English Sheepdog, and letters that change everything.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 145
Kudos: 174
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. one

The window in Apartment 3A looked over a large tree. When it rained in the summer, its flat leaves swayed under the weight like it was nodding, saying sure, use me this way. In the fall, it was lush with color, burnt oranges and fiery reds. That was when the tree seemed most alive, while going through the throes of death. It was bare in the winter, naked for all to gaze upon. Sometimes, she would sit on her couch with knitted socks on her feet and think about how the tree paralleled the female experience.

Adam had broken up with her in June. They had been at a New American restaurant, one of those places with a nondescript verb as its name, like craft or check, that would leave someone listening slightly confused when you said where you were going. This place was a fifteen minute walk from her apartment called Speak.

Adam said their lives were going in different directions and that she was too caring. Then he’d said, “Pass the salt, please? They never season these enough.” In response, Betty took a sip of water. She wanted to return to Speak one day, she liked their fries, so she prepared a neutral tone for her voice.

“Well, clearly we’re going in different directions, fuckface. That’s perfectly fine. You’re going to explain what too caring means though. It’s a concept with zero congruence.”

“Come on, Betty, let’s not get into this here. Later, please?”

Very calmly, Betty unscrewed the saltshaker and tipped half the contents onto Adam’s fries. “You started it here so we’ll finish it here. How’s that for too caring? Now, talk.”

Adam said she was like an invisible person. She was so mired in caring for others, she’d forgotten to develop a personality, so she substituted kindnesses for it instead. All she did was work, then cook and clean stuff around his apartment. He’d said: “It’s like I’m dating a vacuum cleaner. You don’t have an opinion on anything anymore, probably not even about what’s going on now.” Her most pressing opinion was that he was not worth her veggie burger becoming cold and soggy. So she ate.

After the meal, Betty accompanied Adam back to his place and collected her things. She felt as though she had finally been jammed back into her body after floating above it in inescapable stasis. The relationship wasn’t working and it hadn’t been for a while. Its stangnacy wouldn’t be cured by moving in together. She didn’t just dislike Adam’s tendency to leave the toothpaste cap open, she disliked everything about him. She could maybe tolerate his looking up reviews to shows in the midst of watching them so he could regurgitate the opinions afterward as if they were his original thoughts. But he was that way with everything, a person pastiched from _Times_ op-eds and the Zagat guide. He never listened. His eyes would glaze over as she told him about her day. When she said, “Adam, are you listening?” he’d reply, “Of course I am, just getting lost in your voice,” and go back to staring through her head. When she had trouble closing the one drawer he’d provided, his solution was to help her flatten her clothes and shove it shut, not give her more space.

She felt monumentally embarrassed. Adam was clearly a ridiculous person. But the fact she had spent so long with him meant on some level, she was pretty ridiculous, too. So Betty removed items that belonged to her from the drawer that did not, and went home to Apartment 3A.

The previous tenant in Apartment 2A was Anita Chavita. Anita once borrowed a potato from Betty. This led to them saying hi when they crossed paths in the small vestibule where their mailboxes were, between the walk up’s front door and the narrow staircase. Betty last saw Anita in June. Anita was standing with her backside holding her door open and pulling a box labeled _kitchen_ through. She’d said, “I’m sorry, I know my stuff’s everywhere, I’m sorry!” Betty hopped around replying, “It’s fine, no worries, I totally understand!” and helped carry a standing lamp.

Anita was moving to Arlington. She had a boyfriend there. She worked in sales for a biomedical equipment company and was transferring to their DC office. Her new place had a small balcony. At the truck, Anita said, “Best of luck with everything, Betsy. Sorry I never got a chance to return that potato,” and went back inside for the rest of her boxes.

Running laps around Prospect Park, Betty felt enormously wistful, like she’d lost the potential for an important friendship. She sketched out scenes that could have been—her and Anita stirring sauces together at their small stoves, drinking Pinot on her futon sofa, ragging on Adam. She imagined Anita flippantly saying, “You’re better off anyway, who needs a boyfriend who comes that quickly?” and missed someone she never knew.

The U-Haul and her nostalgia were both gone by the end of her run. She was too tired and sweaty to dress her thoughts up in nice fictions. The reality was that they had been neighbors for over a year and if Anita hadn’t left, they would’ve carried on as before. Things didn’t change until you made them change.

The new tenant moved in at the beginning of August when humidity had clung to the air. There was no production to it, just signs of life one day, like the beginning of an evolutionary process. She didn’t know his name. The labels on his mailbox and buzzer still said Chavita. But she knew his sibling’s name was JB, and that he was older; once, in the same pseudo-parental tone Polly used with her, he’d said, “Yeah, well, you know what JB, that’s just how it is.” Sometimes Betty would try to guess at whether JB was the man’s brother or sister just as a thing to do.

The only other time the man was loud was when he left his apartment. The door always slammed. Betty had the feeling he just let it fall shut on its own weight, which was lazy and inconsiderate. It took seconds to slow the door’s momentum, and she thought he really should take the time because the sound of him leaving was unpleasant. Not hugely so, but enough that she would jump at the noise. Otherwise, he was a good neighbor, they never saw each other.

In early September, Betty heard a huge crash. She was at the sink with soapy water on her forearms and dropped the mug she was rinsing. It wasn’t the door, more like a bookshelf or table toppling over. A week later, she heard signs of a different sort of life, little clicks on the floorboards, a bark every so often. That was how she first saw him. The door slammed on a Saturday afternoon while she was looking out of her window.

The man occupied the world reluctantly. He kept his height under crouched shoulders, his head under a hat, his frame under a sherpa jacket. The dog was a shaggy ball of white and gray fur. He followed beside the man dutifully. Its tongue was flat and pink, and lolled out of its mouth as they exited her window.

The dog made 2A less of a good neighbor. The door slamming increased from the frequent walks. The dog whimpered whenever he was left alone. Sometimes when the man came home at night, she would hear his frustrated groan followed by “goddamn it,” or “why again,” or “hot dog.” Betty didn’t blame the pup for his accidents, poor canine behaviors were the products of neglectful owners. She actually felt for the sad sheepdog, lonely for hours with his big heart, pining for an owner who scolded him upon their reunion. It was an innocent creature that wanted love and made to feel badly for it.

She began forming a picture of the man. He typically arrived home between midnight and one. Not every night, and slightly later on weekends. There was no real pattern to it. The same was true of his mornings. Sometimes she would hear the water running below, the tick of a coffee machine, her morning routine in echoes as she retrieved her packed lunch from the fridge and put on her coat. Other days, just silence. She could never predict when he would venture out with his dog, only the door would tell her that. It seemed that the man did not have a fixed schedule, but rather woke and disappeared into the night with friends and lovers at will, returning to his dog when he was an afterthought that suited his social calendar.

The man’s face, still unseen, began to take on the likeness of an incubus. Betty thought that he must be part of a dynastic succession, vacationing in squalor so he could tell tales of his suffering one day while chewing a cigar at the company retreat. That made his eyes the color of hard gold or silver, with cartoonish dollar signs etched into the pupils. The dog was surely a drunken escapade, one he laughed at with his sea lamprey mouth, hungover and reeking of alcohol.

One Saturday, the admonishment was especially prolonged. The man repeatedly said, “Why would you do this, why,” as if the dog would answer if he asked enough times. Once he said, “Bad dog” very clearly, and Betty considered stomping on the floor.

The next day, Betty saw the man walking the dog without his hat. In the evening, he was hatless again. She thought the dog had done the man a favor, he actually had a very nice head of hair. It looked expensively maintained. It swayed in the wind as though he were in a car commercial, stepping out onto the desert in slow-motion triumph after driving past various landscapes that geographically made no sense. But the loss of his hat made the man no more eager to conquer the world. He countered his increased exposure by hunching into himself even more, like he was embarrassed to be seen in the neighborhood.

Shortly after the man returned from the walk, the door shut loudly again. Betty was about to step out to browse the holiday section at CVS but hurried to her window first. He was in a rush now, just a dark glimmer. She was only sure it was him when his dog began his lament. In the hall, the dog’s howling was louder, bouncing in lonely echoes against the tile. Betty thought if she could wrench out her heart and slip it under the door, she would.

“Hey boy,” Betty whispered halfway down the stairs. She peered between the balusters without knowing why. “Hey buddy.” The dog was silent for a second then continued whining more vigorously, like he was acknowledging her. Betty knelt beside the door. “Hey buddy. Hey there. I know you’re sad, I know. But it’ll be okay.” Under the door, Betty saw a sliver of the dog’s black nose. She held out her index finger and heard him sniff. “It’ll be okay. I can’t stage a jailbreak but I’m going to help, okay?”

She thought that no one would stand up for the poor thing if she didn’t, so at CVS, Betty selected two toy figures from the holiday aisle, a small ghost and black cat, then browsed the greeting cards. One with a brown dachshund wearing a white sheet and carrying a pumpkin in its mouth seemed thematically appropriate. Under its raised tail was a grinning kernel of candy corn.

To her purchases, Betty also added two miniature pumpkins and a box of maple leaf string lights. She thought they looked a little like the ones on the tree outside her window, which were falling fast. Back in her apartment, she set about writing a letter.

_Dear Mr. Chavita,_

_There seems to be some confusion as to what you think I do while you’re gone. I don’t, contrary to what you may believe, sit there thinking: what will piss off Mr. Chavita most today? I know! I’ll defecate. Then, I’ll urinate on the steaming pile and top it off with some hot dogs I’ve projectile vomited from the great excitement of it all. A banana-shit sundae. He’ll love it._

_Actually, it’s a very stressful time for me. It might surprise you to know that while you’re off gallivanting into the evening, I’m at the door crying for your return, even though you’ve slammed it shut in my face and alerted the entire neighborhood of your imminent departure. I think I may be suffering from some ill-placed separation anxiety, even if the rest of the building may not be._

_Enclosed is a list of local dog training schools that may help with the matter. The lady upstairs asked me to pass it along. She is concerned about your lack of concern for my welfare and confused as to why you saddled yourself with a pet in the first place if you find the responsibility so abhorrent._

_With hopes that you’ll remember I cannot eat chocolate, lest you’re interested in experiencing my early mortality,_

_Hat Destroyer_

Betty stuck the card under 2A’s door and put the toys in her purse. She hung the lights over her window and put a pumpkin on either side of the sill.

Since Polly’s relationship with their mother was good, hers in comparison was not bad. Her mother had trouble understanding why she wanted a life so different from Polly’s when they’d once been so similar, and catastrophized the points of dissimilarity as potential avenues for unhappiness. But there was mutual love. Betty felt hers most whenever she talked about her mother with other people. She would casually, perhaps carelessly say, “Oh, you like my decorations? Thanks! My mom didn’t really,” then fill with guilt for illustrating a thoughtless, unfeeling woman. That wasn’t Alice Cooper, who genuinely cared for her. Even if it landed redundantly sometimes, the care was there. That mattered.

Betty had a standing FaceTime call with her mother on Wednesdays. Discussion topics included Polly, Jason, and the twins, how she needed to call her father more often, and personal safety. The latter was her mother’s euphemism for continuing signs of gentrification in her neighborhood. The Wednesday after sending her letter, a card arrived under her door. It slid across the floor like an ice dancer, spinning in tight circles, stopping suddenly when it hit the edge of the woven rug.

“Betty?” her mother was calling, “Betty, are you there?”

“Yeah, still here. I think the connection’s bad. It was breaking up for a moment. What about my decorations? Sorry.”

“I was saying that it’s not that they’re not nice, they just don’t really seem like you. I’m not criticizing, I think it’s very nice you’ve decorated. I just want you to be comfortable there. Brooklyn is so far from home.”

“It’s thirteen stops on the Metro-North.”

“Polly’s so close by.”

Betty refocused the conversation. “I know they’re kind of kitschy looking, but it’s just something for now. They’re not permanent. I’m still trying to figure out what’s me in this space.”

“You liked that wreath Polly had at Thanksgiving last year, on Jason’s office door. That could be nice. Are you allowed to hang things on your door?”

“I don’t think so. The landlord’s pretty strict about it. Anyway the wreath was just fine.”

“You didn’t like it? I thought you did. You were admiring it.”

“It was a bit much. Don’t tell Polly I said that, obviously.”

Her mother’s mouth flattened into a taut line. Incongruence with established conceptions was not a challenge to anyone’s intelligence but her mother took everything very personally, so to her, they were. “Well, I’ll look around and see what’s available. I’ll send you an email. You be safe, okay?”

“I will be safe in Brooklyn, Mom.”

After the call, Betty put away the plates on the drying rack and made her lunch. Then she picked up the card, rolling her eyes to infuse the situation with nonchalance. There was no envelope, just the card. It felt very thin and had a small tear on the crease. The design was a tiered cake with eighteen candles. The words _Happy Birthday Son_ were its frosting, each on its own line in colorful fonts. It was the kind of card that had fussy pages inside, but they had been ripped out so only a thin line of hard glue remained.

Betty predicted short and uninspired contents like _fuck off you enormous bitch_ , but the handwriting was closely packed. It was mostly print, solid and dark, but blended into an improvised cursive at the ends of sentences, like it was rushing to catch up with the man’s thoughts.

_Dear Ms. Cooper,_

_Imagine this. A dreamless sleep. A calm of the heart, a quiet peace in the mind. Warmth settled around your fatigued limbs, collecting into the marrow of your bones. A perfect moment—suddenly snatched away from your psyche’s tenterhooks by what seems like seismic activity of titanic proportions. You’re thrust back into the ceaseless turn of this mortal coil, wondering if it’s yesterday or tomorrow as you wake—cold, alone, scared—not knowing if you’re in your bed or the fog of war as you do auditory battle with the most splitting sound you’ve ever heard._

_Could you guess what it might be?_

_I’m speaking of course, about your singing. See, normally, I’m the kind of dog that keeps to himself, that wouldn’t mention something like his neighbor’s morning belting to her because he has the wherewithal to think, hey—maybe she’s doing it for a reason, maybe that’s how she pumps herself up. Maybe she’s doing her best, working through her crap one day at a time. Maybe she could use a little slack, or at the very least, a grievance wrapped in something other than passive-aggression disguised, frankly, poorly, in Hallmark mawkishness._

_My owner has taken the door-slamming under advisement. You have his apologies for any inconvenience caused. He actually bartends into the evening to help offset his pesky higher education habit and need to live somewhere with a roof, so he can’t afford a dog training school at the moment. Or to gallivant, day or night. But rest assured, other solutions are being explored._

_With hopes that if you must continue singing, it’ll be something other than Christmas carols—seriously, it’s October,_

_Hot Dog_

A thin strip of sweat had formed on her hairline. Her toes were cold. Betty read the note again. She paused over each word and wandered into its definition. She thought if she could somehow deconstruct the message into its individual components, it would no longer exist, or exist differently, like a page in a dictionary that meant nothing when read in order. But the negative performance review remained. She felt weak, like a hypocrite, for having any kind of emotional response to the message, hurt feelings of all things. Anger would’ve been preferable.

In the morning, there was an email from her mother with links to autumnal decorations, bundles of dried wheat and reeds in sleek porcelain vases, chic gourds painted in white and silver. None of it felt like her, but it meant a lot, it perked her up.

Betty moved the card around her apartment throughout October. One Christmas, Veronica had gotten her a mini zen garden from a store that sold expensive candles and incense. “Remember to take care of yourself too, B,” she’d said. Drawing patterns in the sand with the tiny rake was calming, so Betty stood the card up in the middle of the garden. But the self-punishment was gratuitous. Maybe she had been slightly passive-aggressive and a little mean, but the man was just very passive-aggressive and very mean. His card had no good intentions. She considered tossing it, but it’d been too loved for that, and scraping off the words like food scraps was not an option. Eventually, Betty put it in a small box with her other keepsakes.

Betty met Hot Dog’s owner the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It wasn’t the first time she’d come face-to-face with him. Earlier in the month she had been arriving home from Friendsgiving at Veronica’s and stopped to check her mail. Hot Dog and his owner were coming down the stairs. The man was looking at his phone. His ridiculous hair was dangling in front of his face. Betty was holding a packet of toy dinosaurs from the cretaceous period.

They had stared at each other right in the eyes for a few seconds. A single thought transmitted between them as though they were opposite ends of a telegraph wire. _Oh. You._ When the man passed behind her, he pulled his shoulders inward and said, “Excuse me,” through lips that did not fully open. Betty stepped forward even though there was no chance of them touching. Then he was gone. The only evidence he had been there were the few inches she’d moved. The dog had been too excited to get outside to notice her.

Now, Betty was rooting her bag for her keys at the front door. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching and when she felt warm air on her cheeks, she jumped. The porcelain Snoopy figurine she was holding went flying. She heard herself exclaim loudly as she reached out, but a hand swiped above hers and grabbed the toy before it hit the ground.

Betty looked up. The man momentarily wore a surprised expression before it reshaped into unenthusiastic recognition. _Oh. You. Again._ He handed her the figurine, his thumb and index finger pinched on Snoopy’s black ears. Betty took it by the dog’s feet. She wasn’t sure he’d survive physical contact.

“Thank you.”

He replied with a grunt then started down the steps, but stopped when the leash grew taut. He turned and tugged a little. “Hot Dog, buddy, come on.” The dog sat. The man looked to the sky, sighing, “Jesus, not again. Hot Dog, now,” he said more firmly while patting his leg. The sheepdog laid out on his belly.

“He needs shoes.”

“What?”

“Your dog. I think he needs shoes. That's why he won’t go down there. They salted the streets yesterday because of the snow warning. It hurts their paws."

The dog lifted his head as if he were saying, _hey thanks_. The man stared at her with a vacant look. Betty propped her groceries against the door and collected a pinch of salt from the sidewalk to show him.

"Imagine walking around on this with your bare feet.” She sprinkled it to the ground, then navigated on her phone to a photo of a golden retriever in the snow with red rain boots. “I know it looks kind of preposterous but they really help. That’s my sister’s dog Maple. If the ground’s anything but flat and bone dry, she won’t go out without them.”

The man crouched slightly, coming closer to her height. He smelled clean, like harsh soap and the inside. “A real Miss Priss, huh?”

“It’s a learned behavior. Obviously you don’t need to get these shoes, they’re designer, but something similar might help.”

The dog joined them on the lower step and nudged his way to the middle. “Well, hey,” Betty said. “Feeling lonely up there?”

She put out her hand under Hot Dog's nose and after a few curious sniffs, slowly moved it to scratch behind his ear. His fur was soft, without tangles, though it brushed over his black eyes. Betty wondered whose style inspired who.

“You’re a good boy,” she said. A hard lump formed in her throat from finally being able to tell the dog that. His tail thumped against the step like it was old news. “You’re a very good boy.”

“Yeah, he’s the best. Current histrionics excluded.”

The man’s hand came down over Hot Dog’s other ear, and when his dopey head curved up into his owner’s touch, the man looked down at the dog in a practiced choreography. A conversation traveled between the two. It struck her suddenly that they were a pair, a complete entity she’d totally misunderstood. They weren’t enemies, they were pals. The dog wasn’t an intrusive presence in the man’s life. That was her—her card, her voice, her advice. How many times had he muttered to the dog, “won’t she ever shut up?” or wished for him to howl along? Betty felt as though she were shrinking as the depth of how much the man disliked her settled over the interaction like a blurted faux pas. The pantomime of social pleasantries had never been so humiliating before.

Betty picked up her groceries. She mumbled, “Good luck, have a nice walk, thanks again.”

The man replied, “Evening.” She missed what else he said as the front door slammed shut.

Betty often aspired to what Polly had in a thematic sense. The Blossoms’ life was soft and plush, steady with the promise it would stay that way as long as the family business remained tappable. But the details were suffocating, oversaturated with suburbia. The couch was overrun with throw pillows. Betty thought she might be buried alive if she sat wrong. The twins wore pinafores with ruffled collars and soft clothing existed upstairs only. Jason was a nepotist. The drapes were beige, the dog was golden, the cat was tan. Maybe Betty was color elsewhere, but arriving at Thanksgiving to dirty up Polly’s neutral palette with their divorced parents, a bottle of Barolo, and stories from her sad job, she was just a garish rainbow.

Betty thought about Hot Dog and his owner once over Thanksgiving. She wondered how they were spending the day as she watched Jason put Maple’s rain boots on her paws. Jason had a monumental fear of her therapizing him then telling on him to Polly, so he often prepared statements in advance.

“Oh, hey Betty. I’m glad I found you,” Jason said when he saw her. “I have some toys the twins have grown out of if you’re interested. They’re in a bag around here somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks. But no rush, tend to Maple first.”

“Will do. Hey, how’s that Pats fan of yours doing? I still have those season tickets if you want to take another crack at converting him.”

Betty had not told her family about Adam yet. Polly would say “oh no,” like someone had died, then cry on her behalf. It would be an uncomfortable situation since Betty hadn’t cried herself. Her mother’s pushing thirty and unmarried forehead wrinkle would return, joining tiny apartment, Brooklyn, and no money. All the botox would be for naught. Her father would just stare, wondering why she couldn’t have been a son with similar emotional repression abilities. Casually peppering in hints of trouble, then revealing the dumping after her family had whispered enough to become comfortable with it was better for everyone.

“Adam’s good,” Betty said. “He’s busy a lot, though. We’re not spending too much time together these days.”

“Oh.” Jason frowned. She had deprived him of a line. “I’m sorry. That sounds a little lonely. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Great, actually—catching up with friends I haven’t seen in a while, focusing on work more. I’m kind of loving the extra time, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah definitely. Speaking of, let me get you those toys. I know Polly put them somewhere.”

She arrived back from Thanksgiving to an envelope under her apartment door. It was addressed _To 3A_ in handwriting that sloped upward very slightly. Inside was an orange card that looked like a panel from a cartoon. Three dogs sat on wooden chairs around a table, facing a platter of bones. They were holding cutlery in their paws. A speech bubble read: _“Thankful for this feast!”_

_Dear Ms. E.* Cooper,_

_Thank you for giving my owner, Jughead, the advice about the shoes. I’m actually willing to go on walks again, though we seemed to have merely shifted the timing of my tantrums. The shoes look like deflated balloons, but I run away as if they’ve exploded in my face when I see them. If you happen to hear some porcine screeching, don’t worry—I’m not in peril, everything’s perfectly fine. I’m just being an obstinate son-of-my-mother. We are, to my great chagrin, working on tampering my theatrics._

_Jughead would also like to apologize on my behalf for what I said about your singing. He says I seemed to have adopted his tendency to dramatize non-issues and retaliate when feeling cornered. He apologizes profusely for any pain that comment might have caused you, and hopes you haven’t been scared off the activity forever. You have a beautiful voice, and it would be a pleasure to hear it again. Truly._

_Sincerely,_

_Hot Dog_

_(*Emily? Elizabeth? Emma? Eleanor? You’ve said it before, I’m sure, but hey—I’m a dog. My short-term memory is real banana-shit.)_

Betty laughed a bit and put the card on the windowsill between the two pumpkins. The next day, she noticed two small scraps of paper taped over Anita’s mailbox and buzzer labels. The upward-sloping handwriting read: _J. Jones._

In December, Betty ordered a pack of cards with glitter-dusted snowmen dusted for her holiday tips. They were from an Etsy store run by a local designer she bought a pine and eucalyptus garland from. She hung it over the window with some string lights and a stocking while humming along to Christmas carols she played on her phone.

While putting away her autumn decorations, Betty examined Jughead’s Thanksgiving card again. She studied it like a work of fine art, placing it within its own historical context. Maybe the card had just been at his eye level, or one of the few with a canine component. But people could reveal themselves in all sorts of ways without intending to. They could say everything without opening their mouths. Betty touched her finger to the plate of bones. Was he hungry? So far from it he found the concept humorous? Would he let her help?

_Dear Jughead,_

_Admittedly, our friendship has gotten off to a rough start, but in the spirit of the season, shall we break some biscuits and let bygones be bygones? Snowmen and trees for you, bones and paw-prints for me._

_Betty, short for Elizabeth, who has provided these reconciliatory refreshments and thinks they may be able to aid in eliminating the pig-like sounds when it comes to putting on my terrifying shoes (through positive reinforcement and association), would like for me to tell you that my biscuits have eggs, whole wheat flour, pumpkin purée, and peanut butter in them. They’re very healthy, but I should only have one a day if I’m to avoid the holiday heft. She hopes we both enjoy the treats._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Hot Dog_

Betty left the containers next to the door and slid the card under it.

It rained on New Year’s Eve, heavy sheets that rattled the window. The weather agitated Hot Dog, and he howled at it in shrill refrains. Betty was going to Veronica’s annual New Year’s party and staying the night so they could brunch in the morning, mimosas and tartines from Mangia had been ordered. Betty suspected Veronica was concerned the holidays had made her despondent, even though Veronica said, “Of course this has nothing to do with Adam, who’s even thinking about him?” But whatever Veronica’s motivation, not having to accommodate two New Year’s parties this year was enough to have Betty excited, and when the rain cleared in the evening, singing.

She was applying makeup when she heard Jughead’s water running. He often showered before leaving for extended periods, so he was headed out tonight as well. Betty found herself hoping he wouldn’t be working. The structural elements he provided in his letters were minimal, but they were enough to help rebuild a different image of him. This one was more responsible and had far less fun, practically none at all.

He looked to be around her age, so she figured grad student, Brooklyn College was nearby, maybe there. He worked a night shift, and once, she’d heard him arguing with his ISP over a ten dollar discrepancy in his bill, so the pennies mattered. He came home every night. The door slamming had stopped a while ago, but she heard it click shut anyway since she was listening for it now. His life was actually pretty rigorously regimented. She’d simply been unimaginative and presumptuous in discovering his patterns.

At the party, alcohol flowed freely from expensive bottles Hiram gave Veronica to make room for more expensive bottles in his wine cellar. There were stacks of pizzas and toast points with caviar, conversations with people she liked. Near midnight, a man standing nearby weaved towards her. He had a handsome face and kind brown eyes. Over the countdown, he shouted, “I’m Trev, and I’d like to kiss you in thirteen seconds!”

She put a hand on her chest. “Betty. That’d be good!”

“Debbie?”

“Close enough.”

After midnight, they found a quiet spot on Veronica’s balcony and talked while watching wet sleet twist in the wind. Trev had recently moved back from Chicago and missed the accoutrements of cold. He was a friend of Veronica’s from high school, and they’d briefly dated when Veronica was going through her bulging muscles phase.

Betty entertained the chat initially because everyone else seemed to be observing the same Austenesque formality with their midnight others. But Trev was actually pleasant to talk to. Their conversation outlasted the festivities and even Veronica’s patience: after they’d ignored Veronica’s silk pajamas and performative yawns for too long, she said, “This is taking ridiculously long. I’m ending this. Trevor, here is Betty’s number. You’ll text her and set up a date. You’ll hammer out the details. She loves those so I’m sure it’ll be another riveting conversation. Now, Happy New Year, welcome back to New York, get home safely, and detox that midwestern slowness from your system ASAP, you hear?”

After Trev left, Betty grabbed a throw pillow and approached Veronica to whack her on the ass. She laughed more than she could remember in a while as Veronica ran around, squealing with a protective hand on each cheek. Her eye mask, fallen from her forehead, bounced around her neck.

Trev’s sister Val was playing at Rockwood the first Thursday in January, so Trev suggested grabbing slices beforehand and drinks at the show. The meal was fast and the venue was loud, so at the end of the date, Trev promised something quieter next time so they could talk more. The following Tuesday, they met at a restaurant in Flatiron with house-infused vodkas meant to be sipped like wine. Everything was frilly, and the walls were decorated with oil portraits and china plates with blue toile patterns. It was a Rococo nightmare.

When they sat, Betty held up her doily placemat next to her face and joked, “I’ll be seriously offended if this is your culinary interpretation of me.” That had the effect of majorly offending Trev and making the date unsalvageable even though Betty repeatedly insisted she’d been kidding. The service was slow, so they said “wow, wonder what’s going on back there” and “must be really busy tonight” every so often, but otherwise it was a silent experience. At the end, Trev said he’d had a nice time and to take care.

At her apartment door, Betty found an envelope on top of her empty Tupperware. This card was much heavier than the previous two. On a black background were red, silver, and green fireworks, studded with matching rhinestones that winked in the light. In a cursive font, traced in gold foil: _Happy New Year_. The back felt slightly fuzzy, and Betty smiled when she saw the obvious trouble Jughead had removing the sticker tag. He’d given up and scratched through the price in black ink, but tilting the card against the light revealed a row of nines.

_Dear Betty-short-for-Elizabeth,_

_This is how it starts, you know. Everyone says they’re just shoes, don’t be so dramatic. They’re not so wimpy. But then you’re wearing an argyle sweater. You’re dressing as a hot dog for Halloween in a self-referential ode that’s neither quirky nor clever, wearing antlers during the holidays, competing in best dressed dog competitions, a whit of irony nowhere to be found. Eventually, you’re being carried around in a tote bag, unable to look other dogs in the eye as your self-loathing festers in the dark void where your masculinity once resided, thinking—the shoes; I should’ve put a stop to the goddamn shoes while I had the chance. As you can imagine, just the sight of those blue devils summons some pretty acute existentialist dread. But much less when your biscuits are involved. Thank you for them._

_Jughead would also like for me to pass along his thanks for the sugar cookies, which were delicious and didn't survive the night. He considered refilling your containers with this Dry January “cocktail” that’s very popular at the bar right now, but leaving strange liquids sloshing around your door seemed a little disgusting. But should you ever happen to find yourself in his neck of the woods one day, he’d be happy to whip you up a drink._

_One more thing—your rendition of Auld Lang Syne was beautiful. It’s always sounded like a sad song, but from you, it sounds hopeful. From everyone down in 2A, thank you for singing again._

_With hopes you have a good year,_

_Hot Dog_

Betty read the message slowly, savoring it like a book she didn’t want to finish. There was finality in Jughead’s niceties: an unnamed bar, empty containers washed and smelling of tangerine dish soap. Their patchwork was done. The requisite aloofness their particular social relationship demanded had been reached. Now they would go on to exist as neighbors did, lives happening near each other, intersecting only when pantry staples, mail, and new apartments dictated them to. She put the card on the windowsill. It’d been nice while it lasted.

A few days later, Trev asked if she would like to go out again. It felt wasteful to ignore the fact they’d had a good conversation before the bad, so Betty agreed. She suggested meeting at Speak.

There was a big snowfall the day before her date. City authorities tweeted they were equipped to deal with the inclement weather and not to panic, but everyone did anyway. Men rushed around with their arms chained over packs of water and beer, shouting into their phones with agitated brows, “Absolute pandemonium out there, I could only get one.”

Betty watched the snow fall in crisp strokes outside her window. It was a very dramatic phenomenon. In a problematic teen film, it would be the part where the girl with frizzy hair and thick-rimmed glasses discovered contacts and a hair straightener. Suddenly she would be ushered into a shiny world previously unavailable to her, and the object of her affections would softly say, “How have I not noticed you before?” like it was a romantic sentiment to be noticed for wearing a push-up bra. Rain made the world sleeker, darker, like an elegant Parisian bob cut, but snow was an entire makeover.

The streets were clear by the time Betty started to walk to the restaurant the next day. Only thin layers of snow remained, balancing over store awnings and tree branches like silky slip dresses. She saw Hot Dog and Jughead coming up the street as she approached the light. The sheepdog was happy in a fluffy coat of himself, but the man was clearly cold in his sherpa jacket, all folded, angular limbs. She wondered if he was just aggressively committed to his aesthetic or if circumstances were really so bad that putting shoes on his dog’s paws meant he couldn't put gloves on his own hands. Betty gave a nod as they were about to pass, but when the dog jumped and placed his front paws on her thighs, she let out a small surprised sound.

“Hot Dog, no. Down,” Jughead said. He was using a variant of his older sibling voice and rolling his wrist to wrap more of the leash on it. “Hey buddy. Down, I said.” The dog obeyed. “Sorry about that. Hope he didn’t get anything on you.”

“It’s no problem, it’s an old coat.”

Betty bent to say hello. Most likely, she was just a vaguely familiar presence wafting by a couple times a day. But the idea the dog knew she’d provided his treats, that he was sort of saying thank you, was much nicer.

"Hey, Hot Dog." She rubbed big circles into the dog’s fur that warmed her hands. “Hey good boy. What’cha been up to, hmm? What’cha been doing? You driving him a little nuts with your new shoes? Yeah, I’ll bet. Can you shake?” The dog gave his right paw. “Well, between you and me, these are a little loud to go with argyle, so you might consider giving him a break. I don’t think they’re the slippery slope you think they are.”

When she stood, Jughead had an amused look on his face. She couldn’t even see much of it, just dim slices of his mouth and nose. It made her suddenly shy anyhow, aware of the high-pitch her voice had just taken.

“Have a nice evening,” Betty said, giving another nod.

“You too.”

At Speak, Betty was seated at a table that blew cold air on her legs whenever the door opened. She arrived before Trev but texted him to take his time and not rush. She sipped ice water while she waited and made a game of replacing jarring adjectives in the menu descriptions with better ones. After a while, she checked that there were no other restaurants called Speak nearby, and texted Trev a few more times before leaving him a voicemail. Eventually, she texted Veronica: _I think I’m being stood up_.

Veronica replied: _Aww B!!! No you’re not! Stand-ups aren’t actually a thing. He’s prob just stalled on the subway bc of the weather._ Some sad-looking emojis and hearts followed.

Slightly before seven, the cold brought in a familiar face, slightly out of breath. The tip of his nose and cheekbones were pink. He looked different without the dog, with a leather jacket. When he saw her, his amused look returned.

Betty watched him as she waited. She’d imagined Jughead working at a seedy dive with sticky floors and loud sports games on flatscreens, the kind of place college tricked her into thinking were good times. Anyone could tend bar there because it took no skill to carelessly slosh liquids into plastic cups for drunk, screaming people. But Jughead moved around fluidly, like a fish in water. He filled Guinness in two pours, flipped liquor bottles from the shelf into his hands, and returned to the beer glasses under open taps just before they spilled over. When customers pointed at things on the menu, he was polite and helpful. He didn’t smile much still, but she could tell he was trying to be congenial.

At the hour mark, when Veronica began apologizing for Trev’s douchebaggery and sending lots of devil emojis, Betty prepared to leave. She caught Jughead’s eye as she was setting her coat collar straight. They were both completely still for a moment, only the wine he was pouring seemed to be connected to the laws of physics. Then he tipped his head, indicating for her to come over. She pointed to herself and made a _who, me?_ expression even though he was obviously gesturing to her. He nodded and tipped his head again. Betty fixed her collar and put her hands in her pockets.

“Oh hey,” she said when she was close enough.

“Hey. Got some mail for you.”

Jughead reached to his back pocket and handed her a cocktail napkin. On it was a smiley face with uneven eyes, and a small rip on the left cheek where his pen had scratched too hard on the thin material. She unfolded it.

_Dear Betty,_

_His loss._

_Sincerely,_

_Hot Dog_

Betty laughed. Somehow the note didn’t feel like pity, just kindness. “This is sweet. I appreciate it,” she said. She folded the napkin and put it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

“I’m just the messenger. But I do owe you a drink you can thank me for. If you have the time, that is.”

“I just might.”

“Great.” Jughead patted the bartop and smiled a bit. “Sit.”

Betty removed her coat and arranged it on the back of her chair. He placed a menu in front of her and began to step away, but a sort of surge powered through her as the boundaries of their interactions stretched. It felt significant, like reaching the next level in a video game, thrilling and exciting—a change. She extended her hand.

“You know, I’ve had all these conversations with your dog, but I don’t believe we’ve formally met yet. You’re Jughead, right?”

He wiped his hand on his jeans before shaking hers. “That’s me. Old nickname, if you’re wondering. And I believe you’re Betty.” He was smiling, and when she took a moment to really look at him in the light, she saw that his eyes were blue. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up—spoken conversation, dog-sitting, and more cards.


	2. two

She told him bartender’s choice when he asked what she wanted to drink. He said okay, but shook his head when she tried to hand the menu back. “I don’t skimp on the liquor,” he warned. Betty ordered a veggie burger. He pulled bottles from various shelves. She gave slight nods to each, indicating it was fine to add.

“You know, he probably just forgot,” he said as he began shaking the metal cup. His movements were smooth and elegant. “Whoever you were here to meet. I don’t know if that makes you feel any better though.”

“It would if it were true. I didn’t even want to come tonight. The last time we went out was pretty horrible. Mostly silent. But I thought if he could put it behind him, I should too. It’s kind of irritating to think he might be sitting across town feeling superior.”

“Your face says more than kind of. Here. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

Betty sipped. “It’s good. Strong. Sufficiently bitter.” She began to laugh at the absurd situation. “I have terrible luck at this restaurant. I really have to stop coming here on dates.”

“Hey now, one bad date doesn’t mean you have terrible luck. Non-date, I should say. Not to rub it in.”

“How’s this. I got dumped the last time I was here.”

“He broke up with you at a restaurant? Dick.”

“Right? I might’ve been a dick, too, though. It was kind of a non-experience for me. I kept thinking about all these unrelated things while it was happening, like he’s ruined the meal I’ve been looking forward to, don’t dump out all the salt because the poor waiter will have to clean it and it’s wasteful.” Betty swirled the curled orange peel in the liquid, making little vortexes. “Adam read this review once that said restaurants always under-season their fries, so he got it into his head that salting his while announcing it to the table meant that he had taste.” The corners of Jughead’s mouth began twitching. He folded his arms, as though the gesture would contain his amusement. She laughed to let him know it was okay if he did. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m aware my unironically dating these ignoramuses paints me in a terrible light.”

“Do you care what kind of light I see you in?”

“I know I should say no, but a part of me does. If you were just anyone, probably not. But you live below me. You know I’m over-eager when it comes to Christmas music and that I talk to my mom on the phone on Wednesdays. You probably know my sister’s name.”

“Polly, I think. Or Molly.”

“Polly. It’s odd, knowing you know all that and also knowing you very likely think of me as this passive-aggressive interloper with a meddling habit and a penchant for foolish men.”

“I don’t think that. I think you’re the nice lady upstairs who sings like a bird, bakes one hell of a sugar cookie, and whose Dolittleian abilities allow her to have conversations with my sometimes passive-aggressive letter-writing dog. No more, no less.”

Betty smiled. She felt moved by his kindness. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing. Holler if you’d like anything else.” Jughead moved down the bar to attend to two customers who had just sat down, and Betty thought she might like to continue talking with him.

He returned as she was midway through her burger to clear her glass. She hadn’t noticed the lack of company, he’d kept her entertained from afar. It was invigorating to watch someone be good at what they do.

“Hey, sorry. It got busy all of a sudden,” he said. “Another?”

“Just one. The Viognier is fine, thanks. I have work tomorrow.”

He set a wine glass from below the bar in front of her. "As a singer?"

"Oh, no. God no, like I'm good enough. My days are pretty quiet. That’s just something I do to fill some of it."

Jughead nodded. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry for what I said about your singing. I was in a bad place at the time but it’s no excuse."

"I thought that was Hot Dog."

"Well, I'm responsible for him, so."

“It’s in the past. Anyway, no, not a singer. I work mostly with children, I do a lot of sand play work.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a form of therapy. It can often be pretty nonverbal, especially with young or traumatized kids. You have these trays filled with sand, sort of like little sandboxes, and you create scenes with small toys in them. The play’s supposed to be expressive of what you’re thinking and feeling, what’s going on in your life, your subconscious.”

“Hence Snoopy and his dino pals. What’re they representative of?”

“Well, it depends, really,” Betty said, quickly preparing her answer. “Interpretation matters.” She faced a menu horizontally and placed a napkin at the center. “Here, imagine this is sand. The napkin’s a table. Say a kid puts mom, dad, and Sally sister around it. Actually, let’s give him a name. Not Jughead, but—” Betty mentally recited the alphabet and took a toothpick with a blue foil flag from the straw caddy. “This is Bughead. He’s three. He has brown eyes and blond hair.” Jughead smiled and leaned closer, putting his elbows on the bar. “Let’s say little Bughead puts Snoopy at the table too. But he puts himself way over here.” She placed the toothpick in the corner.

“So he’s feeling isolated from his family.”

“Right. Definitely a possibility. It could also be that the, uh, Bones family’s gotten a new dog and he’s feeling neglected. Or he’s scared of the pup.” Betty moved the napkin back under her glass. She took a toothpick with green foil from the caddy and held one in each hand. “Green, dinosaur, blue, Snoopy. Now, obviously there aren’t dinos roaming about anymore, but sometimes these things can be symbolic. So let’s say little Bughead’s playing and doing a lot of this.” She fenced the toothpicks and made some growling noises. “And his favorite movie is _You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown_. He totally gets Snoopy, his favorite time of day is suppertime.”

“He identifies with him.”

“Exactly. And maybe, Bug sees the dino as representative of someone else in his life, too.”

“So abusive parent, maybe. Or some kind of aggressor, like a bully?”

“You got it.”

“Very cool,” Jughead said quietly. “Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah, tons.” She set her phone on the bar and swiped through her photos. When she got to the shelves with her miniatures, Jughead brought the phone closer to his face, zooming in on the toys. She smiled when he exclaimed, “Oh shit, Holmes and Watson!” and “Hey, you’ve got Yoda!” People never really grew up, they just became more of who they were.

“Those are awesome. I would’ve loved playing with them as a kid,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s a perpetual work in progress, so I add to it when I can. You never know what might resonate with someone.” Betty put her phone away. “What’s your story, what’re you?”

“Far more self-serving.” He smiled slightly. “I’m a cliche. Starving artist.”

The way he interacted from the world suggested acting would be his actual nightmare. Bartending was probably as performative as he could get. His prolixity, his penmanship implied he cared more about what he was saying than how it looked, so she didn’t think he was a visual artist, either.

“You’re a writer,” Betty said.

Now he really grinned. “That’s kind of you. I’m trying to be. I’m getting my MFA over at Brooklyn College, creative writing.”

“Have I seen your work anywhere?”

“Doubt it. I taught English before, mostly ninth grade, some tenth. I freelanced on the side, but for publications no one reads. And bartending I’ve been doing since, well, before I should’ve been, really. Long story. But it’s a good skill to have. There’s always people wanting to get drunk wherever you go.” He nodded to a customer flagging him down. “Sorry, duty calls. I’ll circle back when I can.”

Jughead waved her off when she tried to pay at the end of the meal. He said not to worry, he had a comp tab. But Betty was pretty sure it wouldn’t cover her bill, his pay would definitely be docked, so she stopped at CVS on the way home. She’d actually received a set of personalized stationery for Christmas from her father. She didn’t know if she’d given him the impression she was very into correspondence, or if it was his way of reminding her they shared a familial connection. Either way, they did not feel personalized enough for the occasion. The greeting card she selected was made from thick material. It had two wine glasses clinking and the words _Thank You_ embossed in white.

_Dear Jughead,_

_So Betty gets a burger, two drinks, and pleasant company for dinner, while all I get is dry kibble and her droning on about how kind she thought the gesture was? What gives?_

_Slighted, and hoping for more chicken in my future,_

_Hot Dog_

Trev sent a series of apologetic messages the morning after. He said he’d been incredibly busy recently and tried to catch a quick nap before the date so as to not be a complete bore, but had forgotten an alarm. He was so remorseful, Betty actually did believe him. She ended things anyway. Trev was pleasant, but nothing in her fluttered or tingled when she was near him. In the bleakness of just another year ahead, the nice kiss they’d shared on New Year’s lost its shiny sheen. Trev was kind about it. He wished her well and looked forward to catching up at Veronica’s shindigs in the future. Betty felt wonderful after the interaction, she thought her mature self might be metamorphosing.

She was heading out for an evening run in late January when she heard Jughead on the phone while passing his apartment. His voice was agitated. Betty stepped closer and pressed her ear to the door. She heard him say, “okay, but what if” and “please.” He sighed a lot. Betty listened for a while, until she heard the lock turn. She quickly did an odd hop forward.

“Hey,” Jughead said from the doorway. He seemed taller than usual. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“No. Of course not. Just tying my shoe.”

He nodded slowly. “Right.”

Jughead picked up a garbage bag by the door. “Don’t bark, I’m coming back,” he said to Hot Dog, before turning the deadbolt.

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. Their exhales made small cloudy puffs under their noses as though they were little fire-breathing dragons. It was good running weather.

“It sounded like a tense call,” Betty said. “I heard the intonations. Unintentionally.”

Jughead looked at her. “That was Speak. I was trying to swap shifts but they’re being inflexible. There’s this English 102 section up at Hunter I’m taking over. The current guy’s overextended, which I think means he’s twenty-three and in a crisis over juggling school and a side hustle for the first time.”

“Hey, great news for you though. Congrats.”

“Thanks. I teach it in the morning over here so it’s not an incredibly exciting development, but it’s a good gig. There’s nothing quite like supervising lofty soliloquies about the deep meaning of the text from kids who couldn’t be bothered to read it. Problem is, the class is on a stacked day and the timing’s tight for me to run back and walk Hot Dog. So he’s either alone from eleven til midnight-plus, or I’m looking for a dog-walker. The former’s just cruel, so I guess I’m in the market.” He placed his trash in the bin. “Anyway, I’m keeping you. Have a nice run, Betty.”

There were new faces in the park. Betty tried to smile encouragingly at them, but she was too distracted to do so properly. She thought about Jughead trying to make his ends meet, simply survive, while she was out blowing off steam with the committed resolution keepers who had the temporal luxury to concern themselves with concepts like self betterment. She wondered if there was a way she could be helpful to him. After her run, Betty knocked on Jughead’s door.

“I wasn’t completely truthful before,” she said as Hot Dog wedged his way out to greet her. “I was eavesdropping, a little. There was some intention there.”

Jughead smiled. He likely was not terribly mad about it. “I know. Your laces were double knotted.” He leaned against the door jamb. “You came by just to clear your conscience?”

“Sort of. I have a proposition for you.”

“Uh oh.”

“Indeed. So I was thinking I could watch this guy for you on the days you’re teaching, save you the trouble of a walker. I’m usually back here by six, sometimes earlier. The honesty was ancillary. I figured you’d want someone trustworthy dog-sitting.”

“Oh. Wow. This is unexpected.” He rubbed behind his neck. “It’s very nice of you. Thanks, really, for the offer and the honesty. Both great. But I think I have a way to make it work.”

“Allergic to help?”

“Not really. I just try to handle what I can,” he said. “Appreciate it, though.”

Jughead’s way of handling things was basically just sprinting everywhere. He would come running down the street in the early evenings, walk Hot Dog briskly, catching his breath, then leave, sprinting again. His long limbs moved in smooth, flowing circles, like a locomotive entity. He was objectively beautiful to watch. But he was obviously exhausted, forced into the exercise by circumstance, and it took any pleasure out of enjoying the view.

February came. Betty visited the drugstore everyday, gathering all the cherub figurines she could find. Young clients often used those in their sessions. People were eager to write children off, but they were actually incredibly insightful when it came to self-identification. One Tuesday, she found herself strolling the greeting card aisle after Jughead nearly mowed her over on her walk to the store. “Ah, fuck,” he’d said as they untangled themselves, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Only after assuring him several times that she was, he’d taken off, sprinting faster than he’d ever gone before.

A simple greeting card caught her eye. It was minimalist, with a light blue background that stood out against all the red and pink. On it was a small illustration of a shaggy white dog. The fur below his collar was gray and heart-shaped. In a sans serif font, it said: _Puppy love._

_Dear Jughead,_

_I’m in quite the predicament. My heart’s aflutter, I feel hot and cold, and my paws do these very strange, involuntary taps whenever Betty walks by in the morning. Then I feel nauseous all day, like I might die, until she walks by again in the evening. I believe this may be that thing called love. It’s terrible!_

_I get so blue here with only myself for company, and I wonder if I might spend some time with her on the days you’re teaching. You see, I have a feeling she might like me back. I may be neutered and well on my way to irreversible emasculation by footwear, but even us dogs need love, too._

_With affection from my lonely heart,_

_Hot Dog_

After, Betty worried she had gone too far. Did he think she was into bestiality now? That she was this pathetic girl upstairs acting like a foolish teenager, leaving _Do you like me? Check yes or no_ notes in her crush’s locker even though he was clearly uninterested? Either scenario was heinously mortifying.

There was a knock one Wednesday evening. It came late, past midnight. No one ever knocked so she knew it was him before opening the door. The criminals that haunted her mother’s sleep would not be so polite. Betty was wearing an old cheerleading raglan with a large hole that sometimes exposed her nipple when she twisted too much. She put on a sweater in case the conversation called for gesticulation.

“Jughead, hi,” she said. He looked very tired, eyes almost consumed by the dark circles under them. “Everything all right?”

“Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late but I saw your light on. Hope I didn’t wake you.” He held up her Valentine’s card like he was providing textual evidence in an English class. “Any chance this still stands?”

Betty smiled and replied that it did.

On Sunday evening, Jughead brought her an envelope. It had a cellophane window, and the crease was lined with fuzzy particles, like he’d run under the flap with a knife.

“Thanks again for this, Betty. I really appreciate it,” he said. “Key’s in there for you to pick him up. I’m happy to come get him, but if you want to head to bed, get sick of him or whatever, feel free to let him back downstairs. He’s a big boy, he can handle it. My number’s in there, his vet’s in case you need to get in contact, oh and my buddy Archie’s too if you can’t get a hold of—what?”

Betty was laughing. She shook her head. “Sorry, it’s not you. I used to babysit in high school. This feels familiar. It’s not unlike having a kid, is it?”

“Not unlike, but not completely like. Nice thing about kids is that they hopefully learn to tell you what they want one day.” He smiled and leaned a bit closer, like he was sharing a secret. “We can’t all be dog whisperers.” She could smell the pine needle scent from his soap. His proximity made her warm.

After Jughead left, she fiddled with the key until her skin smelled of metal. They were kind of like miniatures, objects that could be highly symbolic depending on interpretation, on your external relationships. Adam had never given her a key, he’d worried that would infringe on his independence. Early on, she had wondered if he was cheating or if he didn’t see her as enough of a fixture in his life to allow her to let herself in. Now she had this key, Jughead’s key. But the symbolism was different, there practically wasn’t any at all. She was just the upstairs neighbor who watched his dog. This key had nothing to do with independence, or trust, or love. It was a byproduct of a transaction.

On Monday after work, Betty let herself into Jughead’s apartment. She laughed as Hot Dog jumped up to greet her. It was such a nice way to be welcomed. She patted her thighs and called his name as he hopped around her.

The apartment was neatly kept. Jughead didn’t own enough to make a mess with. His bedclothes were blue. They reminded her of the bagged sets stacked in pyramids at home goods stores. His flat sheet was tucked with neater military corners than her own. In a row under the bottom right corner of the bed were a couple pairs of shoes, laced and tied, toes facing front.

By the window was a packed bookshelf and a small desk. There were papers on it, some student essays with his scrawled commentary in authoritative red ink, another stack with clean, double-spaced pages. She read a few lines about a deadbeat dad before quickly turning away. This writing was more restrained, measured, but it was the same voice as the one from the greeting cards.

Opposite the clothes rack was Hot Dog’s bed. It looked pretty ordinary, but when Betty pressed against it, she felt it slowly mold around her hand. Her heart ached when she saw Jughead’s hoodie balled in a corner. Clearly, he cared a lot for the dog. She wondered who cared for him.

On her way out, Betty paused to observe the pictures on his fridge. Jughead was in all of them, so these were his people. There was one of him with a redheaded beefcake who’d definitely make Veronica go “ooh la la,” one of him grinning at a cheeseburger next to a jolly gentleman in a bow tie and apron, one of him with a pretty blonde and an older man. It was a family portrait, they all had the same eyes and smile. The father’s hand was pressed to Hot Dog’s chest, keeping him still. The background was a single-wide trailer. She wondered if the mother was just unseen behind the camera or absent entirely, if this father was the same one from his writings.

“I’m sure you know, so it’s too bad you can’t tell me,” she said to Hot Dog. “C’mon. You can show me all your favorite trees.”

Walking Hot Dog was more difficult than she’d anticipated. He was excited, so he pulled and darted into everyone’s way. He was strong, too, so Betty went shuffling along with him. She didn’t know if pedestrians were staring because they were annoyed or thought she was committing grand theft canine, but she felt the urge to explain that she was new to this, she was trying. As they walked, she wrapped her free arm around her torso.

She’d brought some of Hot Dog’s things up to her apartment to ease his displacement, a half-chewed bully stick, a plush burger toy with some slobber on the lettuce leaf, the hoodie. After the walk, Betty fed Hot Dog a treat, placed the toys around him, and draped the hoodie over him like a cape. She snapped a photo just as his tongue lolled out his mouth in a happy smile. _He’s doing well!_ she texted Jughead.

A few minutes later, he replied: _Looks like a love connection after all._

They established a routine. On Monday and Wednesday evenings Jughead would pick Hot Dog up after his shift at Speak, and Betty would share stories about the neighborhood dogs they’d bumped into on their walks as he knelt down to greet his happy pup, jumping and running in circles around him. He always asked whether Hot Dog ate, and said, “oh good, good,” when Betty replied of course, Hot Dog would sit next to his bowl around his suppertime, so it wasn’t like she could forget.

The third week into dog-sitting, Jughead had shown up pale, swaying on his feet. She asked if he was okay. He replied he was fine. Betty asked again, pointing out his lack of color and balance, and he said he’d be fine once he got some food into him. He’d been too busy all day to eat. She’d quickly offered him a banana, explaining they were a good source of quick energy, she ate them after long runs, but he’d shook his head and said, “No, thank you. You save those for yourself.”

It was hard to sit still the following Monday. As Betty propped her feet up, she thought of Jughead running laps behind the bar, hungry and exhausted. She took Hot Dog on a couple strolls around the neighborhood, but all that did was tire the dog out and make her more restless. Eventually, she pulled a loaf of bread, pesto, tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil from her fridge, and assembled a sandwich. There was a good chance Jughead wouldn’t accept it since he was too stubborn to even accept a banana, but she had to try.

“You think he’ll like this?” she asked Hot Dog. He stood on his back legs, as though he were actually checking to see. His black eyes were giant and clear as he stared longingly at the cheese. Betty fed him a small sliver. “Don’t tell,” she said.

That evening, as Jughead was saying hello to Hot Dog, Betty pushed out the dining chair, making it scratch across the floor loudly. “So I have this sandwich,” she said when she had his attention. “I started making it when I was feeling hungry, but I snack when I prepare food, and now I’m not anymore. It’s yours, if you’d like it.”

Jughead stood. His relaxed expression became serious. “Betty, you don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m offering you a sandwich I’m no longer interested in.”

“I was about to go downstairs and heat up a pizza.”

“This is right here.”

“It’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary.”

She shrugged and walked the plate to the trash. “If you say so.”

“Wait!” Jughead looked very torn. “Well, don’t toss it,” he sighed, and held out his hand for the plate.

As he started in on the sandwich, Betty fetched him tortilla chips, carrot sticks, and a glass of milk. She sat opposite him with a mug of tea so she wouldn’t make him uncomfortable as he enjoyed his meal. She had never seen anyone devour food this way before. Jughead had manners, he put his napkin on his lap, and shook out chips from the bag onto his plate, but he ate like a starving animal. He hunched over his food protectively, and never put his sandwich down.

When his plate was clear, he took it to the sink and began rolling up his shirt sleeves. “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” Betty said. “I can do that.”

“That was delicious.” Jughead picked up the sponge and put a small drop of dish soap on it, as though he hadn’t heard her. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing.”

“That was the first thing I’ve had to eat all day, so not to me. Do you cook a lot?”

Betty leaned against the fridge. “I’d hardly call putting some stuff between bread cooking, but yeah, I try to. I find it calming. I like seeing things come together.”

“You’re good at it. You make this mariana over the weekends that has the whole building smelling like garlic and tomato. Always makes me hungry. I’m pretty sure it’s you, anyway. I did some exploring once and it smelled best outside your door.”

“You olfactory eavesdropper.” Jughead smiled a bit. “It’s minestrone actually. I batch-cook on Sundays for lunches, lazy dinners, that sort of thing. Would you like some? I have plenty left.”

“No, thank you. I couldn’t, I’m way too full,” Jughead said, but she saw the intense craving in his eyes. He clearly had a very special relationship with food and some sort black hole for a stomach. So on Wednesday, Betty left a saucepan of minestrone simmering on a low flame a few minutes before she expected him. When Hot Dog rushed to the door, whining and scrabbling at it, she poured the soup into a bowl and placed it on the table, alongside some toasted sourdough and an apple.

“Nice teamwork,” she whispered to Hot Dog. As Jughead knelt to greet him, Betty pushed out the dining chair again.

He laughed to himself when he saw the meal. “Snacking again, huh?”

“Bad habits die hard, I’m afraid. It’s going down the sink if you don’t want it. I’m much too full now.”

He brought a hand to his heart. “You’re hitting me where it hurts.”

“Soup?”

“Food waste. Can’t stand it.”

The next time she was in his apartment, Betty rummaged through his freezer. There were chicken breasts, swedish meatballs, and a couple pepperoni pizzas. His carnivorous habits were unsurprising, but they’d be a challenge, she had not cooked meat in a while. But she wanted to serve him something he’d enjoy, that he’d understand as a meal prepared specially for him. Leftovers did not send that message.

Betty shut the freezer door. She studied his photos again, paying close attention to the one where it looked like he wanted to make love to a cheeseburger. “This is for edification only,” she said to Hot Dog, sitting dutifully beside her. “I’m not being creepy.”

The fries were easy enough but the first burger she made was too well done and slightly burned. It wasn’t a total loss, Betty cut away the charred parts and put it on a plate for Hot Dog as a midnight snack. Those sad eyes were impossible to say no to. Her second attempt was much better. She melted a slice of cheese onto it and assembled everything as Jughead’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Okay, that is stuff between bread, and it looks oddly like cooking,” he said, when she pushed out the chair.

“Jughead?”

“Yeah.”

“Just eat the burger.”

He smiled and said, “Yes ma’am.”

It became a game, finding recipes she could utilize for both their meals. Betty split marinara sauce into two pots and turned one into a bolognese, divided lo mein into separate pans, one with sliced chicken and the other with extra veggies.

“Bet you didn’t bargain for two strays when you decided to watch this one,” Jughead said one evening. He was slicing into an apple with one hand and passing it to Hot Dog under the table.

“Hey, you’re my friend, not a stray.” He looked at her so intensely, Betty had to glance away. She felt bold, too bold, unilaterally pinning this label on him. “Were you in the Army?” she asked, desperate for a new topic.

“The hospital corners, right?”

“And the shoes. And that.” She gestured to the apple.

“My father was. I was just in a gang.” He began spinning the knife like it was a pen. “The old man inducted me when I was fifteen and made me pour cheap beer and Jim Beam for him and his pals since their last bartender wrapped himself around a tree. I say made me like it wasn’t exactly what I wanted back then. The idiocy of adolescence.”

“I stole an answer key for a Trig test once. No one thought I had the balls to.”

“So you showed them your manhood?”

“Just whipped it right out.”

He snorted. “Hot Dog’s one of my better paternal inheritances. There was a change in the familial dynamic last year. My dad’s pals offered to take him, but I thought, here’s this dog that’s never wanted for anything except a place to sleep, a couple walks a day, and a meal. He’s loyal to a fault, been with my family through a hell of a lot. He didn’t deserve to be abandoned when the going got rough. That didn’t feel right to me.”

Betty picked at the paper tag on her teabag. “You’re not at all what I thought,” she said.

“Which was?”

“Rich.” Jughead laughed roaringly. “I thought this was your crash pad, and that you spent all night partying, and all day recovering while intermittently styling your two-hundred dollar haircut.”

“I cut my own hair actually. Have ever since I was a kid.”

Betty sighed. “Of course you do.”

He asked about her clients. Betty couldn’t tell him much, but he always put down his knife and fork and inquired anyway. He nodded understandingly when she vented about Polly. Her sister had finally caught on that things had ended between her and Adam.

“An hour!” Betty said. “She cried fat, weepy tears for an hour, as if any of this had a thing to do with her.”

“That’s extreme. Was she crying because of the break-up or something else?”

“Who knows. It’s not like I could hear through all the wailing. Apparently Adam has a new girlfriend now. She’s supposedly splashed all over his Instagram. Tall and brunette. Hair down to there. Polly thought something nefarious was underfoot.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding slowly as he cut a bite of chicken parm. “Didn't like how she found out, then.”

Betty pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You are supposed to be on my side.”

“Hey, this is what I do.”

“Bite the hand that feeds you?”

“Toy with points of view. Life of a writer. And a bartender. Sorry, you’re getting the double whammy here,” he said. “But don’t get me wrong, I am on your side. Screw the outpouring of emotion. Screw the hairy brunette, too.”

The next day, Betty arrived home to find a card under her door. On it was a spring scene with curved blades of grass and a little beagle chasing a butterfly. In a cursive font were the words: _Thinking of you…_ Betty felt her heartbeat quicken. She opened the card, wondering what it could mean. Inside, the stock message said: … _And sending thoughts and prayers in this difficult time._ She laughed even before reading the note.

_Dear Betty,_

_My sister JD, short for Jelly Donut, is a howler, too. Never understood it. I was picked on by all the other dogs in the kennel. It’s kind of what happens when your name’s Hot Dog. Meanwhile, she got a cool, or at the very least, normal shorthand out of her dumb foodie name._

_Sisters. Can’t really do anything but put up with them, right? But at the end of the day, I’m grateful she’s there—if only because a united front against one’s crazy parents is kind of the only way to survive them._

_From the poster child for canine objectification,_

_Hot Dog_

Betty smiled and felt her lingering frustration wane as she read the note. Polly was ridiculous, but nothing she ever said or did suggested anything but good intentions. Betty thought about how her mother hadn’t yet said a word about Adam during their weekly calls, and knew that blessing was likely Polly’s doing. She imagined their mother pacing Polly’s beige house, worrying about how many cats her youngest daughter’s would end up with, while Polly assured her not to panic, she’d assess the situation.

Betty navigated to Adam’s Instagram profile. His new girlfriend’s name was Cricket. She searched herself for a feeling. She wondered if she was frigid for not having an emotional response to Adam’s obvious happiness. But all she felt was sort of guilty. She’d never made Adam look that way in their time together. Even that disappeared when she remembered he’d never made her as happy as his chirpy girlfriend looked, either. They’d been awful for each other, it was mutually assured destruction from the start.

Betty thought Cricket was perfectly nice-looking, but she took a screenshot of the latest photo of her and Adam together anyway and analyzed it for something Polly would find reprehensible and sent it to her sister. She typed: _Ugh, look at her roots,_ and let Polly take it from there.

March arrived. Outside her window, small green buds started to bloom on the branches. Betty looked up, tracking their growth while Hot Dog sniffed around the dirt and tree trunks, curious about the change in seasonal scents. She took down her holiday decorations, embarrassed they’d been up for so long. She hoped Jughead wouldn’t notice. Of course he did, but he simply shrugged and said one evening, “The beginning of the year’s always bleak as hell. I say celebrate as long as you want.”

“Do you say that?” she joked.

He grinned. “I’m saying it now. Oh, here. Almost forgot.” He pulled little toys from his bag, one after another, like a magician with a trick scarf. “Had a moment to grab lunch today. They’re from that movie that looks like _Transformers_. That one with the poster on the bus stop by the bodega.”

“ _Transfigures,_ I think.”

“That’s the one. And they say Hollywood’s out of fresh ideas.”

Betty counted the toys. She felt her heart clench at the gesture, at the image of him sitting at a small table, sticky with soda, red and yellow boxes keeping him company. “Jughead, you ate six happy meals?” she asked.

“There’s literally four nuggets to a box.”

“So you ate twenty-four nuggets?”

“No. Four palm-sized cheeseburgers and eight nuggets.” He peered into his bag again. “I have a ton of tiny milks if you want those, too.”

“I’ll take one. Oh, and some apple slices if you have them. Best part of the meal.”

His expression became confused. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?”

“Who’s favorite part of the meal’s the apple slices?”

“Mine.”

“And I thought I was weird.” He set the snacks on the table. “Go nuts.”

As Jughead ate, Betty noticed him glance at the toys several times, so after he’d cleared his plate, she said, “Hey. You wanna build them?”

His eyes lit up as he quickly sat back down. “So much.”

His enthusiasm was infectious, it made her smile. Out of nowhere, Betty found herself thinking he’d make a good father one day. He’d probably wouldn’t dismiss play as childish, he’d likely encourage it, create all sorts of stories for his kids.

Towards the end of March, Jughead texted her and said that he wouldn’t need her to watch Hot Dog the following week. It was his spring break so he’d be around. Betty felt relieved when she read the message. She hoped he could finally catch a breath. She tried to be quieter as she went about her routines that week in case he was writing or resting.

The following Monday, she made up a plate of lasagna and salad for him, and set it in front of him alongside an apple and a brownie. He placed two sandwich-sized ziplocs in front of her. One was filled with army men and Hot Wheels motorcycles. The other had some Disney characters and farm animals. They reminded her of toys at the register at Riverdale’s Mobil. She’d buy them when her mom sent her out to fill up the tank over the holidays.

“My sister went home for her spring break, so I asked her to see if she could find these,” Jughead explained. “They’re from when we were kids. I hope you don’t mind but I told JB what they were for. She was convinced I was becoming someone’s baby daddy. She was really inspired by your work so she sent you her stuff too.”

“Oh,” Betty said, reverently picking up the bags. “That’s so kind, please thank her for me. May I?” Her fingers were itching to open them.

“Please.”

She began setting the toys upright on the table. The paint on them was faded and chipped in some places. She let out little sounds of excitement when she unearthed some older figurines, and even gave a loud whoop that scared both Jughead and Hot Dog when she found one of little Chip atop Mrs. Potts’ head. “I lost this in an auction once. The eBay wars can get intense,” Betty explained. “There’s this one ninety-year-old piece of work, mrsgems87. She outbids me all the time. I wrote her once, explaining my position. Nothing. Nada. No sympathy. Can you believe it? She doesn’t even use them, just ‘likes looking,’ she said.”

Jughead looked amused. “So you’re saying you tried to badger a tottering old lady with fragile, achy limbs and probably only a precious few years left to enjoy her toys into letting you win eBay auctions?”

“For the sake of children. I’m right here, I know I am. I won’t let your writerly POVs convince me otherwise.”

He laughed and helped her line up the figurines. “I saw that you had some soldiers and princesses. I didn’t know how helpful repeats would be, but I thought nuances could be important.”

“They are. There can be a lot to learn from why a client picks one toy over another.” Betty watched as he fiddled with a little coiled snake from his sister’s collection before setting it on the curved cedar bridge in her mini zen garden. “Are you sure you want to part with these?” she asked. “You’ve both kept them for so long.”

“That’s just a bad habit. Didn’t have much growing up so we hoarded what we did. I’m sure you know the precise psychology behind that better than I do. Anyway, I’d like for you to have them. I hope they help.”

“I’m sure they will,” Betty said. She looked over at him. “Thank you, Jughead. This is really wonderful.”

He shrugged. “It’s no problem. They’re not doing anyone any good sitting around in my old man’s trailer.” He stood suddenly and placed his hand over a cabinet. “Plates?”

“One over.”

He retrieved a small dish. Betty was confused by it until he pushed it towards her after he’d finished his lasagna. He picked up his knife and began cutting into his apple, alternating between laying neat slices atop the plate and passing them to Hot Dog under the table.

In April, Betty bumped into Trev at Veronica’s birthday party. The interaction was pleasant. Trev shared that he was seeing someone. Her name was Melody, and she was the drummer in his sister’s band. “It’s weird,” Trev said. “Sometimes we don’t even talk about much but I’m happy just sitting there with her anyway.”

“I think it’s not so much weird as it is the real deal,” Betty replied. She wished him all the best and meant it, and told Veronica to put the Grey Goose away, copious amounts of the stuff was not necessary.

Then the third week of the month came. Jughead texted her that the semester was ending and that she’d be relieved from her dog sitting duties come May. Betty felt like she’d been punched. The reality of what that meant dawned on her. No more late night chats, no more cute dog warming her cold feet. But she reminded herself it was silly to feel sad, no one was dying or hurt. Their arrangement was always a temporary situation.

The last Wednesday, she made him another one of his beloved burgers. She topped it with bacon and bought the good chocolate ice cream from the store for the accompanying milkshake. This time, before Jughead knelt to say hello to Hot Dog, he handed her an envelope and a bouquet of daisies wrapped in brown paper.

“For you. Just a small thank you for everything these past few months,” he said.

“Oh!” Betty accepted the flowers, hiding her blush behind them. “It was no problem. Hot Dog’s a great dog.”

“He could’ve been a hellion and you still would’ve gritted your teeth and helped anyway, I think. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s been nice having the company. It honestly was no trouble. I’m going to miss him.”

“And me too, right?” he said.

Betty shrugged, smiling. “You’re alright.”

As he ate, Jughead told her the origin story of his love affair, a diner that always had a burger ready for him, whatever the hour. It never mattered if he couldn’t pay, as long as he was polite and cleaned up after himself. He told her about the owner, a man who didn’t put up with his surly teenage shit, who helped straighten him out when his father couldn’t be bothered. “You remind me of him,” Jughead said. “But if you’re ever in Toledo and come across a guy named Pop Tate, don’t ever tell him Jughead said Betty from Riverdale makes just as good a burger as he does. It might just break his heart.” It sounded like too good of one to be broken, so she promised she wouldn’t.

After washing his dishes, Jughead sat a while more. They talked about the work he was looking into for the summer, a fortnight-long writing residence he was on a waitlist for. She told him that the motorcycles he’d donated to her miniatures collection had really resonated with one of her clients. They talked about TV shows, books, he challenged her opinions even when he agreed with them. On every hour, he said, “I should really let you get to bed.” As the clock ticked towards four a.m., she figured he was right.

At the door, Betty handed him all of Hot Dog’s things, but when she went to give his key back, he shook his head.

“Keep it. If there’s ever a fire and I’m trapped under a flaming beam, you have my permission to use that and drag me out from under it,” he said.

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Well, I’m happy to reciprocate in some way. I’d rather not bury a body, so try not to kill anyone, but I think I can swing a friendly rescue.” Betty laughed a bit. Jughead did too. She watched as he looked around her apartment, like he was trying to commit it to memory. “Well, thanks again, Betty,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He clicked his tongue. “C’mon Hot Dog, let’s go. Say bye now.”

Betty stood at her door until she heard his shut downstairs. She tidied up even though there wasn’t much mess to tend to, and selected her outfit for the morning. Then she sat down with the card. The design was a chalkboard. The words: _Thank you!_ were written in schoolhouse cursive, and the _‘o’_ in _you_ had been replaced by a red apple.

_Dear Betty,_

_It’s been great getting to know you. Thanks for all the treats, conversation, and company. My time with you was always the best part of my week._

_Have a great summer,_

_Hot Dog_

She smiled and displayed the card by the daisies.

In May, restaurants began storing their heating lamps. Betty spent her weeknights sipping wine al fresco, catching up with friends she’d neglected in chillier months. She swapped out her sweaters for blouses, and arranged her upcoming schedule with frantic parents, thankful their children had somewhere to be for an hour during their summer break. The season’s prestige television began airing. Betty found herself getting stuck into a buzzy crime drama that dropped new episodes on Sunday evenings.

She bumped into Jughead and Hot Dog by the mailboxes a couple times. Hot Dog would wag so enthusiastically upon their reunions, Betty worried his tail might fall off. It was nice to know the sweet cottonball hadn’t forgotten her. As she petted him, she asked Jughead what he’d been up to. A little of everything, he said: bartending, freelancing, tutoring bratty UES kids for their SATs. Betty always felt lighter after their run-ins, rejuvenated. But then again, she would. Humans were wired to release oxytocin at cute, fluffy faces and big eyes.

At Veronica and Polly’s insistence, Betty went on a couple dates. She had dinner with Raj, another friend of Veronica’s from high school. This guy was far from silent, he went on and on about how therapy was boohockey, so Betty resigned herself to not dating any more of Veronica’s high school pals. She met one of Jason’s frat bros, Frankie, at a bougie watering hole in FiDi for drinks. “It’s good practice,” Polly kept saying, and even though Betty didn’t know what the practice was for, she went anyway. Polly put so much effort into setting the evening up. She survived it, but with a deficit in brain cells.

“I’m getting a cat,” Betty declared over Eggs Benedict.

“You are not. They’re fussy and smell atrocious,” Veronica replied. “Tell me your criteria. What is it you’re looking for?”

Betty thought about Adam, how he always seemed to abhor talking to her. Someone who didn’t might be nice. She thought about how Raj’s presence and Frankie’s greasy hair annoyed her. Someone tolerable, who bathed himself would be a plus. She thought about what Trev said about Melody, just being able to sit with someone in silence, and she thought that sounded pleasant, too.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Someone I like being around, I guess. Someone who likes being around me.”

Towards the end of the month, there was a fluke cold spell. People shivered up and down the streets in light jackets, confused all of a sudden as to how to dress for colder weather. Betty was not immune, and she stood under her shower until the hot water ran out after she’d spent the day shivering in a denim jacket.

After her epic shower, Betty bundled herself up in her robe. She made tea and wrapped her cold fingers around the mug. When they’d warmed a bit, she checked her phone. There was a message from Jughead.

_Not to be that guy, but I’m pretty sure it’s “auld acquaintance” and not “old acquaintance.”_

Betty smiled. She hadn’t even been aware she’d been singing, but the weather did have her feeling a little festive. She replied: _You’re Scottish?_

_1/32th. Possibly 1/64th. The exact genealogy escapes me._

_Well, I’m 1/16th, and I say it’s “old acquaintance.”_

_Fair enough, lassie. Hey, you’re watching Honest Investigator, right?_

_I am, eavesdropper._

_Cool, dying to talk to someone about it. What did you think about the farmers co-op actually being a mass suicide cult?_

_Are you serious?!? I haven’t gotten to that part yet!!_

Jughead sent the grimacing face emoji. Betty didn’t take him for an emojier, but she’d been wrong about him before. _Sorry. In my defense, the ep’s been out for nearly a week so you kind of have no excuse_ , he said.

Betty stomped on the hardwood. A few seconds later, she heard a squeak against her floor. The sound was sort of familiar. She thought he might’ve thrown Hot Dog’s burger plush at his ceiling, which she’d terrifyingly discovered had a squeaky component when she’d accidentally stepped on it. She stomped once more and replied: _I was literally just about to watch it. Don’t even know if I should now_.

_It was only so-so._

She was about to respond that she’d know nothing about it, but then the three little dots appeared on his side of the conversation. She held off. Eventually he said: _Okay, so I do feel marginally guilty about ruining that twist for you, so how’s this—on Sunday, I’ll make it up to you by sharing this really old bag of Redenbacher’s I just found if you lend your TV and HBO creds._

Betty felt a grin spread across her face. Now that she was talking to him, she’d realized how much she’d missed it.

 _Bring the dog too, and you’ve got a deal_ , she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count might increase by one chapter, still toying with the outline, but just wanted to let you know! Thanks all for reading!
> 
> Next up—a friendship, a reading, and Archie and Veronica.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be mindful of an updated tag. It is not a major focus of the chapter, but related discussion is there.

Betty was forced to come clean to Veronica about the neighbor and their correspondence. As she was preparing her weekly minestrone, she realized that maybe Jughead was thinking of the evening as a date. That was not what she had in mind. She became flustered, confused. Was she supposed to shave and pluck herself and get dressy just to sit on her couch? Betty was in the dark.

“So you’re into the potato girl now?” Veronica asked.

“No, it’s this new guy. And I’m not into him, per se. He moved in last August. I watched his dog for a while. We’re friends, I think.”

“Sexual friends?”

Betty rolled her eyes. “Regular friends, V.”

They weighed the factors. Jughead’s coming upstairs with popcorn and his dog seemed more friendly than romantic, but the letters they sent each other were very swoony according to Veronica. But then Betty admitted they were from the POV of his pup, and then Veronica said, “Oh. Well that’s just strange.” Eventually, Veronica asked, “B, what do you want it to be?” and after consideration, Betty determined she’d much rather the situation remain platonic. She dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. When she opened the door, Hot Dog jumped up on her, trying to lick her face. Betty desperately hoped Jughead wouldn’t attempt the same.

“Hey. Brought beer, too,” he said. He was in his usual uniform, too.

They watched the show on her futon and with bowls of soup cradled against their chests. After a few drinks, Betty was slightly giggly. When he said, “Okay, what’s so funny?” she replied that she’d worried he thought this was a date.

“Oh,” Jughead said slowly. “Is it not?”

“Well, no it is, I mean it can be. What I meant by that was—”

“Kidding. Keep up, Cooper.”

“I was trying to preserve your feelings.”

“By pretending this was a date? And then what?”

“Then I’d move out,” she joked.

“Because that’d hurt my feelings so much less. You’re not very confrontational, are you?”

“You’re sitting here because I was.”

“Through a greeting card.”

She wanted to pour his drink on his head. It was an extraneous criticism. But his expression was kind. It seemed that he wanted to understand her. Betty shifted in her seat. “I’d like to think I’m not a doormat. I stand up for myself when I need to. But I do consider how others might feel about something quite a bit. I do recognize that about myself.” She found a loose corner on her beer label and picked at it. “I’m a little disillusioned with dating at the moment. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Hey, I get it.”

“Not much for it?”

“Not to be crude, but you can hear when I’m on the phone. I’m sure you know that you’re the only woman to have breached the premises since I’ve taken up residence.” He tapped his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, making faint hollow sounds. “I don’t really like dating. I’m no good at it. I can’t stand the ritual, the bread baskets, the small talk, spilling your mommy and daddy issues and waiting for someone to decide whether they can tolerate your baggage or not. There’s no romance in that trauma.”

“So you’ve resigned to going through life alone?”

“I’m not alone. This sausage roll’s good company.” He gave Hot Dog a few good pets on his belly. “No offense intended, but I’m glad this is not a date. I listen a lot in my line of work. You know what that’s like. It’s nice to just talk without the pressure of it being something else.”

Betty wasn’t offended. She had the apps, finding a dinner companion was as streamlined a process as getting gas. But the structures that once made it easy to form friendships were no longer there. Now she had to seek out circles to find like-minds, book clubs and pilates, except she liked reading and running alone. A good friend was more valuable than a disposable date.

“Yeah, that’s sort of rare for me,” Betty agreed. “I’m talked at a lot. Less talked to.”

June brought the weather she liked best. It was non-weather, balmy and pleasant on her skin. Bistro tables filled with wine glasses and energetic chatter. Outside, the tree was at full bloom, luxuriant and verdant. Betty felt happy to rise and take her place in the world every day. She felt like it was alive again, and that she was, too. Early in the month, she heard Jughead coughing downstairs. Once, she saw him sneeze into his elbow while walking Hot Dog. It was too nice a season to feel so terrible, so she made up a batch of chicken soup. The cards in the _Get Well_ section had photos of animals in precious poses. Betty selected one with a picture of a sleeping dog wearing a cone of shame. It said: _Sit, stay, heal!_

_Dear Jughead,_

_I had kennel cough once. As it does all things, a hearty helping of chicken made everything much better._

_Sending wishes for your speedy recovery,_

_Hot Dog_

Veronica was dating again. Betty became involved even though she wanted no part in it. She sat through Veronica’s dinner parties and entertained the friends of the men and women Veronica wanted to get busy with.

“It’s exhausting, I feel like a geisha,” she complained to Jughead when he was back to himself. They were watching a steamy period drama Veronica had been sending lots of frantic texts about. He had grumbled “oh God,” but clicked play anyway.

“So don’t go.”

“It’s not so simple. V’s a good friend, my best friend.”

“Hey.”

“Have you held my hair back while I threw up in a communal bathroom?”

“No, but I am providing your alcohol on a weekly basis,” he said.

Betty was walking home from the subway one evening when she saw the glass doors at Speak open. There was a couple on a good date, both blushing over untouched plates, a few patrons sipping rosé and aperol spritzes at the bar. Jughead was wearing a flannel. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows in homage to the season. Betty felt relieved to see him. It had been a long night of unfamiliar faces. She wandered in and sat at the end of the bar. He didn’t notice her at first, he was loosening the ice in the bin, but he drew his head back slightly when he did.

“Hey stranger. What can I get you?” he asked, smiling.

Betty visited Speak often after that. Some evenings, she’d stop in to watch the sun dip behind the buildings, chatting with Jughead when he wasn’t tending to a customer. She ordered fries if she was feeling peckish, and shook out a bullet of salt at him when he set the shaker in front of her with a playful expression. When he slipped her receipt in the bill folder, he drew small, inelegant pictures on the back that made her smile when she folded it in half. A sun wearing shades on an overcast day, a dog comprised of various oblong circles and his familiar handwriting. _Ceci n’est pas un chien._

If she felt Jughead had been in low spirits the evening before, she’d ask if he’d like her to bring Hot Dog by. Whatever he replied, she did it anyway, and sat outside at a bistro table with Hot Dog curled at her feet. She’d read sometimes, people-watch others, and sip her drink. She enjoyed seeing what Jughead made her: a Manhattan or a Sidecar the nights she returned home from one of Veronica’s affairs, a Cooperstown Cocktail on Wednesday evenings, a shot of tequila the last day she’d be seeing one of her clients. His parents’ insurance policy no longer covered his sessions. No matter how hard she tried to work within their budget, explain that they were doing good work, it wasn’t feasible. Betty knew it had nothing to do with her. She was simply working within a broken system that cared little for the children they insisted be born. She hadn’t been up for seeing anyone that evening, but Jughead asked if she wouldn’t mind bringing Hot Dog out, it was important. When she arrived, he’d sent someone out with her drink. Beyond the doors, he’d filled a glass for himself. They threw back the alcohol, bit into limes, and winced together. Then Betty took Hot Dog home. Jughead continued closing up for the night. She liked that she could talk to him. She liked that sometimes, she didn’t have to.

Betty spent the Fourth of July with Veronica and some of their college friends at the Lodges’ Hamptons cottage. It was actually a five bedroom house with a pool and private access to a beach with fine white sand. They stayed up late drinking wine and eating cheese smuggled in from France, and watched the fireworks on the beach, huddled under cashmere blankets. She wondered if it was transgressive to enjoy the luxury so much; she did feel ashamed about it. During the show, Betty’s phone buzzed. There was a photo and a short message that read: _Happy 4th from Hot Dog and Vegas._ Hot Dog and a yellow lab in a stars and stripes bow tie were wearing what looked to be wrestling headgear over their ears.

“Oh my. Who is _this_ studmuffin _?_ ” Veronica said, snatching Betty’s phone away and zooming in on the redhead in between the dogs. Betty wondered what impressive decibels Veronica’s voice would reach if she revealed she was in possession of the man’s number.

Betty spent the fifth back in the city, moaning and regretting everything. Her tolerance was not what it once was. In the afternoon, Jughead texted: _Are you back or do I have to go up and defend your 350 sq. ft.?_

_I’m back. Barely. I might be dying._

Not long after, there was a knock on the door. She heard Hot Dog’s whine and excitedly rose to let them in. The pup jumped to say hello. Betty thought she would never tire of being greeted that way.

“What’re you doing here?” she said.

“Usurping Veronica’s position as your best friend. I’m fantastic at holding hair back. JB was a refluxy kid.”

Betty waved Jughead in and patted her duvet twice to invite Hot Dog up to her bed. She only thought a little about what her mother would say. “You’re out of luck. I’m not going to be sick. What’s in the bag?”

“Gatorade, Pedialyte, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver, thank you.” Betty reached for the bag but Jughead pulled it back towards himself.

“Hey, this isn’t all for you.”

“You’re hungover?”

“Outrageously. I’m just not as dramatic about it as you are. Oh hey, the fluffball wanted me to give this to you.” He pulled out a small envelope then began to start up the TV and settle onto the couch. It had two rows of red, white, and blue bunting banners, and looked like flags fluttering in the breeze.

_Dear Betty,_

_Fireworks are pretty damn scary. Exploring the vastness of starvation, confined in solitary with my own banal thoughts for company, however, might be scarier._

_With hopes you’ll take pity on my sorry state of affairs when Jughead bums with the beach babes,_

_Hot Dog_

Betty smiled at the note. “You got into the residency?”

“Just found out yesterday.”

“Jug, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. Of course Hot Dog can stay. We’ll have a great time. Now, come here.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to give you a hug, and you look far less comfortable than I am.”

It was an awkward embrace. Betty tried to push herself up, but between the dog lying on her chest and her aching head, it was an effort. At some point, Jughead said, “Well, don’t hurt yourself,” and leaned over the bed. Their angles were off. Betty was sure they looked like a visitor and a hospital patient. But the hug was comforting and warm. He smelled of sharp ozone and summer sun. She wished it could have gone on longer.

It was a wet month. It rained in heavy, purposeful bursts that rattled her window. Betty worried sometimes for the tree outside. It was vibrant and full of life now. She hoped the rain wouldn’t bring it down prematurely. It seemed unfair that vengeful weather could fell a beautiful thing. It had done so much to grow.

There was a storm one evening. Downstairs, Hot Dog was barking and pacing ferociously. He had been doing so all evening, becoming increasingly agitated as the storm neared. Betty felt ineffectual. Hot Dog didn’t understand weather patterns the way she did. The poor thing probably thought the apocalypse was nigh, that he was trapped and alone for it. When she heard a crash and a yelp, Betty rushed out her door. She only realized she was barefoot when her feet touched the tile.

The hallway was sticky with humidity, but Jughead’s apartment was pleasantly cool. She murmured a quiet “oh” when she saw Hot Dog cowering under the bed. A tower fan had toppled over. It clacked loudly against the hardwood as it attempted to oscillate.

“Hey, Hot Dog. Hey, buddy. It’s alright.” He was shaking violently. Betty grabbed the Jughead’s hoodie from Hot Dog’s bed and swaddled it around him. “I know it’s loud, I know.” There was nowhere to sit other than a wooden desk chair so Betty brought him up onto the bed and placed her hands over his ears while rocking him gently. She shut her eyes and began singing so Hot Dog could hear something other than the storm: _Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone_ , one of her clients had been humming it earlier as he buried a toy dog beneath the sand.

When Betty woke, she was confused and disoriented. The angle of the tree, her surroundings were all unfamiliar. Then she realized she wasn’t in her bed. She was in Jughead’s plain blue one and he was home now, typing on his computer. Hot Dog was snoozing calmly at his feet as though he hadn’t been having an epic conniption hours before. The other side of the duvet had been folded over her. Jughead turned as she sat up.

“Hey sleepyhead. I was going to try waking you again if you didn’t get to it yourself,” he said in an amused voice. “How’s the bed? Too hard or just right?”

Betty folded her hands. She wanted to disappear into the sliver of space between her fingers. “I would like to begin by saying I’m not a creep. I know there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary but I do have an explanation.”

“I was counting on it. Drink?”

She was not thirsty, but she wanted something to hold in her hands. “Yes, please.”

Jughead began heating water in a small saucepan and retrieved a box of chamomile tea from the cabinet. It was the same kind she bought herself. The tea came in triangular silk sachets with actual flowers, not just the dried stuff that looked like weed. Perhaps he anticipated her company. Maybe it wasn’t so bad she was here. Then she saw the time on the stove clock: three in the morning. Absolution would not come from a teabag.

“So what’s the story?” he asked. Betty traced her thumb over the letters on the mug he handed her: NYU. She wondered if they had been adjacent circles orbiting a couple train rides, half an island away from each other for years until now.

“Hot Dog,” she replied. “You wouldn’t know it now, but he was shaking like a leaf before because of the storm. I heard the fan fall over and thought he might’ve hurt himself. I was only going to stay until the worst of it passed.” She fiddled with the paper tag. “You know the rest.”

“I worried about the weather. He’s been around bikes ever since he was a puppy so I didn’t think it’d be a problem, but herding breeds are apparently sensitive to storms. Thank you, Betty.”

“You’re thanking me for breaking into your apartment?”

He sipped from his mug, coffee, black. “I’m not mad about it. You had a key.”

“I didn’t tell you I’d be using it to take an impromptu nap.”

“I said I wasn’t angry. I was plenty surprised.”

Betty wound the string on the teabag around her index finger. “You’re working late.”

“I think best at night. And I have a reading in a couple weeks, so I don’t have much choice in it.”

“What’s the story about?”

He shrugged and began flicking his thumb over a chip on the handle of his mug. “Life. Loss. The school of hard knocks, etcetera etcetera.”

For days after, Betty apologized repeatedly. Each time, Jughead just joked, “Don’t worry about it, you only snore a little.” He was understanding, so Betty tried hard to return his kindness. At Speak, over a glass of Frosé he gave her hell for sipping enthusiastically, she asked about his upcoming reading. He dashed off to the other end of the bar to wipe away an invisible spill. When she prodded about the piece he’d be reading, he answered, “It’s nothing, just a short story,” and turned back to the crime procedural they were watching with interest she knew he didn’t have in it. She found details of the event online.

The reading would be held at a small coffeehouse in Greenpoint. A mix of established and burgeoning writers would be presenting their works. At the bottom of the page was a line encouraging support of the writers. Betty read it several times. Would anyone be there for Jughead? Was the knowledge no one would be why he was so reticent about it? His sister attended community college outside Toledo. His father’s trailer was local to that area. They wouldn’t be voyaging to the Big Apple to listen to Jughead read for ten minutes while sipping overpriced cold brew made by insouciant baristas. He had a few friends: Archie, whose greatest wish was for them to take Hot Dog and Vegas out on the town and prowl for phone numbers, Toni, a former flame who worked with troubled youths in Queens, but she didn’t know if they would be there. She rubbed her chest. She couldn’t imagine working so hard only to have that success acknowledged with polite claps and stilted smiles from strangers. Someone he knew ought to be there for him. Everyone needed someone to care for them, whether they asked for it or not.

The coffeehouse was called Tête-à-Tête, and had exposed brick walls and wooden chairs. Above the chalkboard menu were rows of shelves filled with beautiful leather-bound volumes: Proust, Baudelaire, Twain. Pedestal cake stands stood atop glossy coffee table books.

Veronica was on her arm. Jughead was an unknown writer, so it was imperative he have an audience, her patronage, Veronica said. Betty was not sure either would think much of the other, but there was no deterring Veronica once she set her mind to something. They ordered their coffees and searched for seats. Betty spotted Jughead near the mic with some of the other writers. They were all attacking their papers with red pens. Jughead was in a loose white shirt, top button undone, jeans, scuffed brown boots. He looked good in the uniform of the erudite Brooklyn writer, handsome.

“Oh my God.” Veronica gasped and grabbed Betty’s arm. “The auburn Adonis. Come B, let’s make the introductions.”

“Veronica, I don’t know him.”

“That’s no matter. Friends-of-friends is more than sufficient.” Veronica led her to Archie’s table and laid her hand over the chair. The manicure was wine red today. “Hi. May my friend and I share this chair?” Veronica asked. “It’s so packed in here.”

Betty worried Archie would start drooling. He looked positively blinded. Veronica’s beamish smile had that effect on people. “Yeah, totally,” he croaked out after some moments. “Absolutely, I’m all yours. It is, I mean.”

They sat, and after Veronica tilted her head in Archie’s direction a couple times, Betty said, “Sorry if this is impertinent, but you’re Archie, aren’t you?” Archie looked confused. His brow lines were set deep. It was a frequent state. “You’re on Jughead’s fridge. I’m his neighbor. Betty.”

Archie’s face brightened. “Dog girl!”

She didn’t mind the moniker. It was hard to take umbrage after being likened to a household appliance by an ex. “That’s me. And this is my friend, Veronica.”

“Veronica Lodge. Pleasure.”

Archie’s hand shot out so eagerly, it sent his coffee cup spinning. “Wow. Awesome.” He added, “For Jug, that he has like, an audience. He didn’t mention you were coming. I’d have gotten a bigger table if I’d known.” Betty doubted that, Archie was already bumping the waifish girl next to him on the bench. “Here Ronnie, pop a squat. You guys look really squished over there.”

“Jughead doesn’t know, actually,” Betty said. “I wanted him to have a friendly face in the crowd, but I worried he’d think I was pitying him if I mentioned it.”

“Yeah, he’s weird about this kind of thing, but it was good of you to show. I’m sure he’ll be stoked.”

The readings began. Archie and Veronica exchanged meaningful glances. Betty stared at Jughead’s back. His shoulders were stiff, and he was tapping his pen against his pages in an erratic rhythm. She wanted to volunteer a smile, ease his nerves if he turned. Betty felt badly about her table’s collective disengagement with the other writers’ material, but her presence wasn’t in service of them. They had their own people.

Eventually, it was Jughead’s turn. Archie began applauding ferociously and cheered “ay, Juggie!” as Jughead stood. Veronica giggled and added a loud whistle. That caught his attention. His lips parted slightly and his brow raised. Betty offered a small wave. He paused for a moment, then set his jaw. The lines in his neck were taut.

Jughead introduced himself without fanfare and began reading. It was the story of a young boy who found companionship in movies. He worked as the projectionist at the local drive-in, a ramshackle institution littered with his innocence and loneliness. Betty was viscerally moved by his writing. She felt the boy’s starvation wring her stomach, the chill of the drafty booth bite her skin. Tears pricked her eyes when the boy scrounged up the popular douchebags’ half-eaten popcorn while they sniggered and threw cans at him, when the boy carefully poured wrinkled, unfinished bags of peanut M&Ms out into clean napkins to present to his little brother.

The sky was streaked with fingers of orange when the writers dispersed to their fan clubs. Betty felt nervous as Jughead stalked over to his. She had been unpacking his story. It was a pair of glasses, a primer. She was coming to a new understanding of him. He’d been condemned to an isolated existence and been ridiculed for circumstances outside of his control. No one could emerge from that cruelty without hardened emotional barriers.

“Hey, great job up there,” she said after Archie clapped him on the back and commented “here’s our resident Steinway.”

“Thanks, thanks.” He rubbed behind his neck. “I was surprised to see you here.”

“My curiosity got the better of me. Oh, sorry—Jug, this is my friend Veronica. Veronica, Jughead.”

“The famous Veronica,” he said, shaking Veronica’s hand.

“The famous Jughead.”

There was small talk after that, some pointed questions from Veronica about whether Jughead had an agent or a full manuscript. Betty could tell he didn’t appreciate it. Eventually, Jughead said, “So listen, we’d love to hang around but Archie and I were going to grab some grub.”

“You could come,” Archie added. “Both of you. The more the merrier.” Veronica smiled, and the dinner arrangements were settled.

Archie insisted that hers and Veronica’s company demanded better than some wing joint, so with a few taps on her phone, Veronica made reservations at a nearby brasserie. “I’ve read stellar reviews,” Veronica explained as they were seated in woven bistro chairs. Betty had also, but she became concerned when she saw the menu. The pricing was possibly too exorbitant for Jughead. It was on par with Speak, and he had once said he had never eaten there, even with his employee discount. When their order was taken, he said, “Just fries, thanks.”

Veronica looked crestfallen. “That’s all? The sirloin burger is supposed to be excellent. Betty said you liked them.”

He shrugged. “I’m not that hungry. Residual nerves.”

“Well, you’ll have some of the shareables if you change your mind,” Veronica said before proceeding to order appetizers for the table before Betty could stop her.

During the meal, Archie shared stories of when he and Jughead were college roommates in a tiny dump in the East Village. Veronica returned with ones of when she and Betty had been the same up on the Upper West Side. They talked about work. Archie was a sound tech at a news media organization. He combated the mundanity of the job by jamming with his band and giving music lessons to needy children over the weekends. That made Veronica’s eyes very soft. Veronica admitted she’d come from money, but wanted to make a fortune for herself. “I-banking, naturally,” she said somewhat humorously, but actually, she enjoyed the pace of the work and yelling at men. An impressed look crossed Archie’s face. Betty realized, slightly jealously, sadly, that she was witnessing the kind of date, the connection she wanted.

When the check arrived, Archie said, “Ronnie, your money’s no good here,” and moved the check between himself and Jughead. Betty had not anticipated the situation. The thought of splitting the bill down to precise dollars if someone ordered an extra cocktail or dessert had never occurred to her before now. If she paid a bit more, that was simply the price of keeping friendships, experiencing company. Betty was embarrassed by her privileged thinking. It betrayed a certain type of ignorance, an insensitivity. She continued reaching for her bag.

“I got it,” Jughead said quietly.

“Don’t be silly. I’m happy to pay.”

“Betty, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do. This isn’t 1950.” Betty placed her card on the receipt tray.

Jughead fixed his gaze on his water glass as the waiter whisked away their cards. She felt that if she moved it even a little, he would cave in on himself. His embarrassment was radiating from him like heat. She began to understand that the real kindness would have been to allow him the observation of the social gesture. She had deprived him of avoiding humiliation in front of Archie, who had proudly proffered his card, Veronica, whose expression suggested she was understanding Jughead’s story had been partly rooted in memoir. Betty burned with shame. She stared at her wine glass. The lingering flavor of heirloom gazpacho soured in her cheeks.

They walked for a while after. It was a warm night, so they stopped for gelatos. Betty replied, “No thanks, I’m stuffed still,” when Veronica asked, “B, pistachio?” Actually, the ice cream did look enticing but Betty suspected answering otherwise would lead to another uncomfortable situation since Archie was exercising his credit card again. Archie and Veronica passed their cone back and forth, stracciatella with a spoonful of crushed hazelnuts. At some point, Archie caught Veronica’s swinging hand. Jughead pocketed his moments after. It was a gratuitous, hurtful gesture. He had made it clear he wasn’t interested in her like that. She hadn’t suddenly forgotten because of some French fare and Archie and Veronica’s rampant hormones. Betty crossed her arms.

At the end of the night, Betty ordered an Uber home. Jughead said he would take the subway, but Veronica shoved him in the car and said that was absurd, they were literally going to the same place. It was a silent ride. Betty rolled down the window and let the breeze whip against her face. She wanted Jughead to know she was aware she mishandled the situation, but she did not know how to make him understand that. She was uneducated when it came to speaking openly about finances. Her mother thought it wasn’t done in polite society and so Betty had never learned. If she apologized, it could read as charity, condescension, if she didn’t, idiocy. At the door to his apartment, Betty said in a joking tone, “Oh, sorry about the bill hockey earlier, that was pretty awkward of me.” She thought a good dose of self-deprecation might inject some levity. He reddened and mumbled goodnight.

Betty felt that their ground was still unstable a few days after, so she browsed the drugstore. The card companies had nearly every sentiment succinctly covered but finding something that conveyed how much she valued a friendship was difficult. Eventually she chose one that said _Congratulations_ on a foil-bordered label that reminded her of the bookplates she once stuck in her Judy Blume books. Ex libris Betty Ann Cooper. Attached to the card’s spine was a thin gold ribbon.

_Dear Jughead,_

_Congratulations on what’s sure to be the first of many successful readings. I was bummed I didn’t get to hear it, being your consummate writing companion and all, but Betty said it was wonderful. If you ever need a sounding board, I’m all ears—Betty tells me she’d be happy to loan a red pen and her opposable thumbs to jot down my thoughts._

_With hopes I get a line in your novel’s acknowledgments one day,_

_Hot Dog_

Jughead texted his thanks a couple days later. He added that he wouldn’t be around much in the coming weeks. He was picking up additional shifts to cover his upcoming time off. It felt like rejection even though Archie confirmed as much: “Jug’s working like a dog,” he said.

“Still, we must get our group together again soon,” Veronica replied. They were all at a rooftop bar in Chelsea for drinks. Archie and Veronica were seeing each other with aggressive devotion now. She continued, “I know a great Taco Tuesday deal, really fantastic Margs.” Betty squeezed Veronica’s hand. It was kind of Veronica to make sure she wouldn’t be alone even as she was getting swept off her feet. Betty said she would ask Jughead when she saw him next. That was at the grocery store a few days later, where he was reaching for a bag of rice. Betty was holding a can of cannellini beans for a Tuscan egg skillet. It seemed like a great segue into a conversation about Mexican food with their friends. Then Jughead commented wryly, “Like they serve at Les Deux Magots,” as he looked between their items, and suddenly she didn’t know what to say.

The evening before Jughead was set to depart for California, there was a knock at her door. Betty was wearing a pair of tartan sleep shorts and a tee that said Columbia Mom on it. Her laundry had tangled with her mother’s during Easter. She quickly searched for some jeans, but the knock came again, louder.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late,” Jughead said when she answered. His eyes were wild. “I didn’t know who else to go to. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, slow down. It’s alright. Deep breaths. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Hot Dog. He got into some chocolate. I was packing, I wasn’t watching. Please. I need your help.”

Betty hurried downstairs. The tongues of her shoes were resting uncomfortably against her feet from the careless way she’d shoved herself into them. In the apartment, Hot Dog was laying out on Jughead’s bed. She sat beside him and began scratching behind his ear.

“Hey there, sweet tooth,” she said. “Had yourself a late night snack, huh?” His tail thumped against the duvet. That was promising, he was mobile, in good spirits.

“He hasn’t thrown up, and poison control said it didn’t sound like a dangerous amount, but I couldn’t just sit around doing nothing.” Jughead was sitting now, too, petting Hot Dog slowly. She knew his tone. It was the same one worried parents used when they sucked air against their teeth and asked “so how’d it go?” They wanted to do everything they could to make their children well again.

“There’s a pet hospital nearby,” Betty said. “I looked it up in February in case he ever got into an accident. We could take him there.”

When he nodded, Betty ordered an Uber and got Hot Dog into his leash and harness. Jughead put on his hoodie. She realized she’d never seen it on him before, only Hot Dog. Jughead was moving mechanically now, like he was occupying a fugue state. She shoved his keys and a torn chocolate wrapper on the counter into his pocket before leading him out the door.

At the animal hospital, Betty hauled Hot Dog into her arms. She thought they would be seen faster if he looked feeble. The waiting room was not very full. She rushed up to the desk anyway, shouting “chocolate, he ate chocolate!” with the frenetic energy her mother applied when demanding to speak with a store manager. The receptionist said to calm down, and handed Jughead a clipboard with a pen attached on a string.

“For God’s sake. Can’t we do that later?” Betty snapped. The receptionist shook the clipboard. “This is an obnoxiously backwards system.”

Betty petted Hot Dog as Jughead filled out the forms. It was strange to learn the mundane details about him when she knew what his bed felt like. His name was Forsythe Pendleton, he was the third. Hot Dog was six, he weighed seventy pounds. Jughead’s drivers license was still registered to Ohio. It was a special kind of cruelty to make owners write out their license numbers when their pets were ill and injured. When he reached the line prompting _Spouse/Other Contact_ he looked to her. She nodded. He wrote her number without referencing his phone.

Eventually, the vet emerged from behind a set of swinging doors saying, “So someone was naughty!” in a cheery voice. The exam room had a low metal table for Hot Dog to sit on, but he climbed onto her lap. Jughead gave the details of the incident. He had bought a couple chocolate bars for his trip and left them on his bed. Then they were suddenly gone, most of the packaging as well. Betty retrieved the wrapper from Jughead’s pocket to show the vet. She didn’t know why. Obviously it was an unsafe thing for a dog to ingest.

“Is he going to die?” Jughead asked. His voice was hollow, detached from his body.

“He should be fine, but it’s good you brought him in. Dark chocolate’s more dangerous than your average candy bar, especially in older dogs. We’ll get him started on some meds. Come on, Hot Dog. That’s a good boy. Come on.” The vet took Hot Dog’s leash and promised to return shortly. Then the room was very quiet, filling like a balloon with compressed silence. Betty wondered who would make it burst.

“You can go,” Jughead said after a while. “I know it’s late. You should get some rest.”

“I couldn’t sleep right now. I’ll stay if that’s alright.”

He nodded mutely and started tapping his hand against his knee in a rhythmless beat. Betty inventoried the room: a poster of various dog breeds, an analog clock with a red second hand, an air conditioner blowing heavily. Goosebumps were rising on her skin like baking biscuits now that Hot Dog wasn’t on her lap. Betty drew her feet up to the chair. She stopped herself from stretching her shirt over her legs like when she was a child.

“I didn’t even let you get changed,” Jughead said. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have wanted to waste the time.”

He removed his hoodie and placed it over her knees. She considered telling him about the time Maple had lapped up a gallon jar of syrup. There was comfort in the unoriginality of human experiences. But that seemed like the wrong sort of solace for someone holding their body at the precipice of tension. She slipped her hand under his and stilled his fidgeting instead. The clock ticked on. Near two in the morning, his body slackened, and he rested his head on her shoulder.

They left Hot Dog at the hospital for overnight observation. He was on IV fluids, and had a small piece of blue bandage around his leg to keep the tubing in place. At his apartment, Jughead thanked her for all the help, but made no move to go inside, just stared at his door numbers like they were works of fine art.

“Hey, why don’t you stay with me for the night?” Betty said. She worried about what might happen if he saw all the places where Hot Dog was supposed to be. “The futon’s really comfortable. I fall asleep on it all the time.” She touched his arm to draw his attention. He nodded and dutifully followed her upstairs.

In her apartment, Betty quickly put away the biscuits she made Hot Dog in the cabinet and gathered fresh linen to set up the couch. “You may have to curl up a bit since you’re tall, but hopefully it’s still comfortable,” she said while arranging the sheets, just for something to say. He began crossing the apartment, but didn’t make it very far. He sat on the edge of her bed, his legs folding like paper.

“I think I should cancel my trip.”

“Because of Hot Dog? No, Jug, you can’t. You’ve worked so hard for this. You heard the vet, he’s going to be just fine. He’s going to be with me the whole time. I’m taking him with me to work, remember? Everyone’s so excited. I’ll send lots of pictures, and we’ll call, too. FaceTime every night if you want.”

He nodded. “That’d be nice.” His eyes were turning glassy. When he blinked, a tear spilled over onto his cheek like a treat tumbling from a vending machine.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Betty said, wicking it away. “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.”

A couple more tears fell, and then he was crying, anguished, plaintive sobs. They were difficult for Betty to breathe through. “It’s okay, he’ll be okay,” she said in a soothing tone. “You’ll see. He’ll be just fine.” Jughead was pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His tears traveled down the lines of his tendons and pooled at the crook of his elbow. Nothing she said seemed to calm him. Betty worried he would shatter irreparably if he continued this way, so she began singing. _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?_ She was off-key and her voice staccatoed as Jughead shook against her, but he’d once said the song sounded hopeful when she sang it. She wanted him to hear something other than his own pain.

Eventually, she managed to coax him to lay on the bed. The futon was too far. She helped him remove his shoes and pulled her duvet over him. She stroked his hair in slow, gentle motions, the same way he’d done for Hot Dog. People comforted others the way they wanted to be comforted. She sang and sang, quieting her voice as his crying subsided, stopping only after he had fallen asleep.

In the morning, sunlight slanted through her blinds and printed neat lines of shadow on the wall. Jughead was standing in her kitchen, sipping from a mug. It had painted wildflowers and the letter _B_ on it. He had changed into clean clothes: jeans, a gray _S_ t-shirt, black Chucks. His hair was slightly damp. The sheets on the futon were stacked and folded. She was worried he would’ve vanished in embarrassment, even though he had nothing to be ashamed of. She was glad to see him.

“Morning,” he said quietly. “Coffee?” Betty nodded, and he began pouring from the carafe.

Soreness radiated through her arms as she sat up. “You read these stories about parents doing extraordinary things when their kids are in danger, lifting cars and such,” she said. “I think I understand it now. All that adrenaline.”

“Or you’re just strong.” He sat beside her and handed her the mug. It said _Good Morning, Sunshine!_ over a yellow sun and a small grove of trees. Jughead made good coffee—smooth and bitter. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything last night.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I’m aware my outburst was hysterical. I should explain myself.”

“It’s not a requirement.”

He took a breath. “Hot Dog belonged to my dad, I think I mentioned that,” Jughead began. “He died last September. My sister called to tell me. He was in and out of prison my whole life, and the first thing I thought when I answered was: he’s back in again. After, all I could think was how much I wished he were. Liver failure. It seemed like such an ordinary way for him to go. So pedestrian it was almost noble.” He paused a moment to stare ahead. “I idealized my father when I was younger and got angry he failed to live up to the image I made of him when I was older. We didn’t have a great relationship. I guess it just hit me yesterday that we never would.” Jughead looked at her. “It was raining on New Year’s Eve. Do you remember?” he asked. Betty nodded. “I had a shift I was running late for. I wasn’t even doing anything, just lying there, wondering what the world would be like without me. Not in a suicidal way, just like, if I stopped existing, who would it matter to? Then you started singing. It was the first time you sang after I'd been so mean to you about it. And I thought, maybe it might to you. The person who moved in after me might not like your singing as much. They might slam the door louder or bring a Great Dane. I don’t know why, but that helped, knowing I might be affecting someone’s life, even if in the smallest way.”

There were lines she could offer, neatly packaged truths from textbooks about closure, grief. Betty didn’t say them. He knew. She thought what he needed most was to be reminded he was not alone. He was important to someone. Betty put their coffee mugs on the nightstand and placed her arms around him.

“It would matter if you stopped existing, Jughead. I care about you. It would matter to me.”

He drew back slightly to look at her. His expression was studious, like he was searching for signs of her sincerity. Eventually, he reached for her chin to tip her face to his, and slowly ran his thumb across her lips. She knew he was going to kiss her then. There was an inevitable energy moving between them. He pressed his lips against hers softly, like he was asking her if it was okay. It was more than okay, so she brought her hand to his cheek to hold him to her, and wished he didn’t have to go so soon.

While Jughead was away, their calls were lengthy events, lasting hours at a time. They spoke everyday. He showed her the sun blanketing itself under the horizon, the lights from the pier nestling against the candy sky. He held the speakers close to the water so she could hear the waves, and told her what the sand felt like in his hands. Grainy, warm. She left him staring at the lining of her shorts pocket when she took Hot Dog out in the evenings. “This is unnecessary. It’s a safe neighborhood. Anyway, you’re in California, what could you do?” Betty said. He replied: “Well, I’d come back and kill them.” He said it so straightforwardly, like he was telling her what he had for dinner, that she believed him.

She sent him photos of Hot Dog lounging all over her office. He sent her photos of everything. His writing space, the craggy bluffs and frothy palm trees. Once, he sent a picture of a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and she nearly wrote back: _so cultural!!!!_ She stopped herself. Betty had been to L.A. before. Her grandmother used to live there, by the Getty. But for Jughead, this was a new experience, a door he opened for himself. He was making every effort to share it with her. She touched her screen, wishing she could hear his voice as he sighed, “This, the crowning glory of the Gold Coast? Fitzgerald is rolling over,” and replied: _great pics, show me more_.

She called her father one evening when she realized she had no idea how his liver was doing. He answered, “Betty, is that you? Are you okay? Do you need money?”

“No money necessary.” She began to pick at lint on a throw pillow. She did not know how to say she wanted things to be better between them before the opportunity disappeared, so she approximated with: “I saw the game last night, with Veronica and her boyfriend. He’s a Judge fan.”

The silence swelled like an orchestral crescendo. Then her father cleared his throat. “Glad you’re keeping good friends,” he said.

Afterwards, Betty called her mother even though it wasn’t Wednesday. “I’ve just spoken with your ex-husband,” she announced sarcastically. Even later, she said to Jughead, “I called my dad. I’m mentioning this because you were sort of the inspiration there, but if I’m being insensitive, tell me to shut up.”

He was at the beach again. The picture wobbled as he sat down. “Not insensitive. Don’t shut up. How’d it go?”

She felt certain feelings for him. Betty did not know if they were new threads weaving into the knit of their relationship, or if they were hidden sticks in a bundle she was just now bothering to notice, so she classified everything into discrete elements. She found him attractive. She remembered when that had become an identifiable, conscious thought. They had been at Speak, and a woman sitting a few seats away passed him her number on a cocktail napkin. Betty immediately assumed awful things about her, even as she magnanimously thought, sure she’d want to date him, he’s hot. She analyzed her reactions afterwards, attempting to reach a diagnosis. Jughead didn’t look like her past boyfriends, strapping, shiny guys with clipped hair, but he was beautifully handsome, the kind to be eulogized in poetry rather than posed with the _Discobolous_. She found many of her friends attractive though, so it didn’t mean much.

But now, acting as only his friend was a draining pantomime, a mutation of her authentic self. At the end of their calls, she refrained from saying, “I miss you, I can’t wait for you to get back, I want you.” It felt shallow to have that revelation stem from a physical interaction, even if desire initially manifested as a single moment like any other feeling. You didn’t want someone, and then you did. Anyway, she did find his mind attractive. They wouldn’t be friends otherwise. But there it was like discovered treasure, she wanted him. She liked it when he kissed her, she was comforted when he held her close as they slept. When the vet brought Hot Dog out and said, “He’s good as new, Mrs. Jones,” she felt giddy to exist as someone significant to him in that way.

Would it be selfish to tell him? Jughead had wanted her friendship. She willingly accepted his in return. There had been an understanding there, a congruence. Asking for more would create imbalance if he didn’t want it also. He’d kissed her, then never talked about it again. Using it against him now like courtroom evidence of feelings he didn’t have could make things awkward, deprive him of the friendship he sought out in her. Some things couldn’t be unsaid no matter how hard you tried.

Betty was aware she could say more if she were someone who cared less. But maybe then, she wouldn’t have known him at all. She would be another person altogether, arranged with a different set of ambitions, desires that led her elsewhere. They were here now because of who they were, existing in their particular state because they harmoniously pushed and pulled against each other. But you had to let feeling chart the course sometimes, that was what kept life moving, what kept it free from stagnancy.

The day Jughead returned to the city was cool and breathable. It rained the night before, leaving small pockets of water on the streets that rippled with traffic. Jughead was coming by her office to pick Hot Dog up. He had texted when he landed, asking if that was alright with her. Betty had looked at Hot Dog sadly. He was snoozing on her armchair. It struck her then how nice it was to love something, how meaningful it felt.

The receptionist buzzed her phone when Jughead arrived, announcing, “Your boyfriend’s in the waiting room” through loud smacks of her gum. Betty thought simply: yes, I do want him to matter to me that way. He was wearing almost the same outfit as when he left. His t-shirt was white now instead of gray, making him look very tanned. His canvas duffle was leaning against his leg like a lazy soldier. When he saw her he smiled and said, “Hey there.”

“Hey. Hi. Come on in,” Betty replied.

On the armchair, Hot Dog’s head popped up over the rest. He looked confused for a moment, like he couldn’t tell if he was being bamboozled by FaceTime again. Then he leapt up. His body wriggled like a caught fish as he hopped and ran around in circles. He was panting so heavily Betty worried he might faint. Jughead was laughing, smiling, full of concentrated happiness. “Hey boy, guess you really missed me, huh?” he said while rubbing Hot Dog’s neck in big circles. When Hot Dog brought Jughead his burger plushie from the chair, he said, “You’re still a jackass for stealing my chocolate, but thanks I guess.”

When Hot Dog calmed, Jughead stood. “It’s good to see you,” he said before stepping closer to hug her. She remembered how his muscles felt before he left; they were looser now. “Can’t thank you enough for this, Betty.”

“Yeah, of course. He’s welcome anytime. He made a lot of friends here. You’ll come back to visit us all, right bud?” Hot Dog regarded her, then pulled towards the door. “Guess not.”

“Hey, chill for a moment,” Jughead said firmly. The pup obediently sat in his spot. “Can I look around?”

“Please.”

Jughead began examining the shelves. Everyone did, no matter how old they were. “Is it weird I want to play with them?” he asked.

“Not at all. It’s not just for kids. Everyone can benefit from seeing their mind more concretely.”

“There’s so much more in person. It’s pretty incredible,” he said. “How does it work? Can you come back to get stuff? Or is it an all in one go kind of thing?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. Usually I just tell the kids to grab what speaks to them and let them go from there.” Her desk phone buzzed. Her next client had arrived. “So I had something to run by you quickly,” Betty said. “Before I say anything, I just wanted you to know—no hard feelings if you decide you’d rather not. I would understand.”

“Okay,” Jughead said hesitantly. “Shoot.”

“I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me. The thing is, I like you a lot. I like spending time with you, and I liked kissing you, very much. I know you said you weren’t much for dating. I said I wasn’t quite up for it at the moment, but my stance there has changed. I wondered if yours might’ve as well. I figured I would never know unless I asked.” Her phone buzzed again. “I realize I’ve sort of sprung this on you, so no need to say anything right now. I’m sure you’re eager to get home. Sorry, one sec.” Betty rushed out to the waiting room.

“Hey Ambrose. Ready to get those hands talking?” The boy nodded. “Give me just a minute, okay? I’m setting up the sand.” She jutted her chin at his Yankees hat. “How’d they do?”

“They won! Eight-four.”

“Yeah? That’s awesome. High five.” Betty held her hand low.

Back in her office, Jughead was standing at the sand tray. His wallet was balancing on the corner of it. “Hey, what’re you—” Betty began but he held a finger to his lips and continued working.

She examined his tray. He had set down a table, two chairs. A carrot atop the table, a toothpick with a foil flag on either seat. She remembered them, the ones she’d used for her demonstration anyway. A fake child, Snoopy, a dinosaur. Betty didn’t know what any of that had to do with the current situation. She looked up at him. His eyes were very blue against his tanned skin, and clear from rest. She saw her reflection in them. She understood.

Now, Jughead was moving sand around with his index finger. He drew some numbers and symbols before brushing off his hands. Then he tipped his head, asking her over to his side of the tray. He had written out a time she realized, a question. Betty glanced at him. There was a hopeful expression on his face. She smiled and drew a circle around the check mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up—a date, a getaway with friends, and a birthday.
> 
> With regards to the ugly dog Jughead draws on Betty’s receipt, the English translation of his caption is “this is not a dog,” which is a reference to Magritte’s _The Treachery of Images._ Les Deux Magots is a café in Paris that was frequented by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Henry Miller, amongst others. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> [(If you are interested in seeing what Betty's office and minatures collection might look like!)](https://www.google.com/search?q=sand+play+therapy+shelves&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS760US760&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwin-qqkr8ruAhWzGVkFHYpCC00Q_AUoAnoECAYQBA&biw=1328&bih=733)


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